Pariah

Pariah, Chapter 4

Toil and Trouble

Ron hunched over his breakfast, decidedly hungover, squinting as the light from the windows in the Great Hall bounced off of the iridescent cover of Hermione's Arithmancy book. At least she had given up the interrogation and was now content to just glare at them every now and again, which was rather preferable. Meanwhile, Seamus was jovially trying to pick up on Ginny. Dean was mumbling into his breakfast, slightly green-looking. Harry and Neville were deep in conversation about something. Every now and again, Harry would pause and Neville would say something like, "Yeah, man, totally." Ron sat silent, several seats away, moodily pushing his breakfast around on his plate, not entirely trusting that he'd be able to keep it down if he ate it.

He didn't know what had made him notice it or what compelled him to care, but as he watched the students at the Slytherin table laughing at Draco Malfoy's impression of Pansy mooning the Great Hall, he felt strangely angry. It just wasn't on to make fun of someone who was in the hospital wing. She had seemed really sick last night, but Ron couldn't be sure. He hadn't fallen asleep until near dawn, and everything from about midnight on just blurred together.

On top of that, Teeny Nott's laughter was splitting his already pounding head. He was hoping something really large would fall from the sky and squash the good mood right out of her, but he knew better than to trust his luck with that sort of thing. He would just have to bear it.

It was a little maddening, really, all of it put together: the laughing Slytherins, the glare from Hermione's book, Seamus' cheesy pick up lines, Neville egging Harry on, and especially not being able to eat his breakfast. He felt outside of himself. Maybe it was the lingering effects of last night's alcohol and he was just irritable, but this morning he was enjoying a new perspective on several things. For instance, Draco Malfoy was short and stupid and not intimidating at all. Hermione was immeasurably boring. Seamus was kind of a cheesedick. Dean was a total introvert. Neville was, well, a whack job. And Harry. Harry was really going through some bad shit right now and looked especially like hell today--an observation that pained Ron acutely.

He supposed that if there was one thing that he could change in all the world, it would be Harry. He wouldn't change Harry, necessarily, but his circumstances. He wished Harry's parents had lived. He wished Harry had been happier as a kid. He wished he had met Harry earlier. He wished Harry had gone with Ginny to the Yule Ball fourth year. He wished Harry was Quidditch Captain instead of him. He wished Harry didn't have all the bad things happen to him. He wished Harry didn't feel so responsible for everything. He wished for Harry that Voldemort had died so many years ago, or, better yet, that he had never existed at all.

All of these wishes were idle, he knew. There was nothing he could do that would ever change the facts of Harry's life, just like he could never change the facts of his. He would always be a Weasley. He would always have red hair and freckles. He would always turn bright red when he got embarrassed. He would always love his brothers and his sister, no matter what they did (except for maybe Percy--the vote was still out on him). His family would always have been poorer than the Malfoys. He would have always loved and lost Hermione. He would always be on Harry's side. He would always, no matter what, be a Gryffindor. These things would never change, not now and not ever.

But right now, he wished that whatever was bothering Harry, whatever was pulling them apart, Harry would tell him about it.

But maybe Harry never would. Maybe Harry had his reasons for keeping secrets, like all people had all sorts of reasons for keeping loads of things secret--even from their best friends. Harry had secrets. Ron had secrets. Hermione pretended like she didn't have secrets, but she probably had the most of all. Whoever said that secrets don't make friends perhaps didn't realize that certain secrets kept were kept sometimes out of friendship. And more often than not, out of love.

Ron glanced up from his breakfast, remembering how Hermione used to say that nothing would ever tear them apart, and was rudely taken from his reverie when Terry Boot nonchalantly sat down across from him, grabbed an apple from the table, and began to polish it off on Ron's unused napkin.

"Hello you," Hermione said sweetly, tilting her cheek towards her new Ravenclaw boyfriend.

Terry slowly leaned toward her and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. "Happy birthday, beautiful."

Hermione giggled, closing the book on her finger to mark her spot. "You remembered!"

"Of course I remembered," Terry said, pulling a box from one of the pockets of his robes and handing it to her.

"Oh, Terry, you shouldn't have," she said modestly, even as she tore the paper off the box. She pushed the lid off and her eyes grew wide. "Oh my. You really shouldn't have." She looked up at Terry quickly, and then pulled a gold chain from the box. On it hung a heavy sapphire pendant. When she held it up the light caught it, and it looked like a bluebell flame, turning slowly in the air.

"Ancient civilizations believed that the world was set upon an enormous sapphire, which painted the sky blue with its reflection," Terry said softly. He took the necklace from Hermione's hand and she turned slowly in her seat, piling her hair on top of her head as she did so.

Terry fastened the clasp deftly, letting his fingers linger at the nape of her neck.

"It really is beautiful. I don't know how to thank you." Hermione turned back around and gazed into Terry's eyes, running her fingertips over the stone that sat like a fat blue teardrop on her chest.

Terry took her hand from the stone and lifted it to his lips. "Come with me to Hogsmeade, and that should settle our debt."

Hermione blushed slightly as she retrieved her hand. "Of course! I didn't know they had announced it!"

"November eighth. They just put the notices up," Terry said, grinning. Then his attention turned to Ron. "Hey, Ron. What's new?"

"Hey," Ron said shortly, realizing he had been engrossed in watching that sickening interlude. He had gotten Hermione a new quill for her birthday, which was wrapped and sitting in his trunk upstairs. But there was no way he could follow that, and no way right then that he even wanted to attempt. Looks like I've got myself a new quill, Ron thought snidely as he watched Terry take his place back at the Ravenclaw table.

"What was that all about?" Ginny asked Hermione curiously, turning her back on Seamus, who was telling a joke to Dean. Then her eyes got wide. "Wow, Hermione. That must have cost a fortune."

Hermione smiled, fondly touching the stone. "He really is just perfect," she said softly, standing up and gathering her books.

"Where are you going?" Ginny asked, surprised.

"Library," Hermione said quickly as she cast a meaningful look at the Ravenclaw table. Then she left without any further explanation, her juice glass still half full.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked curiously.

Ginny had a very odd look on her face. "Oh my god," she said, putting her hand up to her mouth. She looked wildly around at all of them.

"What?" Ron and Harry asked in unison.

"You don't suppose they're shagging?" Seamus said.

They all turned to look at Terry Boot, who, at that moment, was getting up from the Ravenclaw table and heading for the doors.

"Ten galleons says he's going to the library," Neville piped in.

"I don't believe it," Ginny said again in that same astonished voice. She was looking very carefully at Ron.

In fact, they were all looking at Ron, expecting him no doubt to do something, say something, wondering what his reaction would be, probably waiting for the worst. Ron lifted his head and looked at them all looking at him: Harry, Ginny, Neville, Seamus, and Dean. Then his eyes returned to Ginny, and he said pointedly, "Don't suppose you could pass a bloke some pumpkin juice?"

Seamus laughed, suddenly, and said, "They wouldn't do it in the library anyway. It would be sacrilegious. And whatever would Madam Pince think?" Seamus raised his hand to his mouth in mock horror, and Neville came through with a fit of fresh giggles.

"They could," Neville said between gasps of air, "have a threesome!"

Seamus stopped laughing and gave Neville a look like he had just summoned forth the demons of hell, which only inspired the others to laugh harder. "Now see, Neville, that's just going too far. I'll have that image in my head for months now, thanks very much."

They finished their breakfasts in near-hysterics. Seamus kept giving Neville the evil eye, Neville couldn't stop giggling, Harry couldn't stop laughing at Neville, Ginny kept moaning, "Terry, Terry," Dean intermittently purred, "Oh, Irma," and Ron couldn't help but laugh at the lot of them and finally managed to choke down several pieces of toast and some bacon before heading off to Potions.

Even in high spirits Potions was a nightmare. So Ron was surprised to discover that being in Potions when hungover wasn't really that bad. For starters, it was dark and the only sound was the hiss of cauldrons and the drone of Snape's voice. It could have been a lot worse. By the end of class, Hermione was giving her housemates very strange looks, apparently feeling a little awkward under their scrutiny. Ron thought maybe her hair looked more a mess than usual, and her robes were definitely wrinkled a bit, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

All in all, they managed to make it out of Potions alive, embracing the freedom of their weekend, which began after that class. Well, almost made it out.

"Weasley, Longbottom, Potter. We need to arrange your detentions before you leave today," Snape said just as they were heading out the door.

The three boys turned with audible groans. "Bugger," Ron whispered, "I'd forgotten about that." They walked stonily to the front of the room, where Snape was standing with his arms across his chest in what he no doubt thought was an intimidating manner.

"Weasley, I'll have you Monday night at eight. You might consider knee pads."

Ron nodded.

Snape's eyes moved along to Neville. "Longbottom. You'll come Tuesday at eight with your dragonhide gloves."

Neville inclined his head.

Finally, Snape settled his glare on Harry. "Potter, Potter, Potter. I know just what I'm going to do with you. Wednesday at eight."

Harry held his gaze. "Should I wear anything special, Professor?"

Snape grinned one of his yellow malicious grins. "No. You should do fine without."

"Fine," Harry said.

"You are dismissed," Snape said, amusement in his voice as he turned back to his desk.

Once outside the door, Ron said angrily, "He's got something sick planned, I can tell. What the hell would I need knee pads for, anyway?"

Neville gave him a strange look. "When hasn't Snape got something sick planned? I don't even want to think about what I'll be handling if I'm to wear dragonhide gloves."

"You should do fine without, Potter," Harry mimicked expertly. "Stupid creepy potionfuck. You know, I think the man's insane."

"It's all that torture," Neville said in an oddly tight voice. "They do things to you and you are just never the same."

"Yeah," Harry said sympathetically, "it's hard on people."

Ron wasn't having any sympathy. "I think it's all the fumes. They've made him a little funny in the head. I mean, knee pads?"

"Well, at any rate," Harry said as they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor tower, "we've got some time until practice this evening, so I'm going back to bed."

"Good idea," Ron agreed.

"I've got some Herbology to work on before this afternoon," Neville said.

"All right, Neville," Harry said as Neville took off for the library. "We'll see you tonight."

"What's tonight?" Ron asked.

Harry leaned in close and whispered, "We're meeting to discuss The Plan."

"Oh," Ron said. "Right."

When they got to the dormitory, Harry and Ron each just fell into bed. Ron laid there for several minutes, thinking about practice that evening, the upcoming game with Slytherin, what strategies he would put into use this year, calculating the chances they had for the Cup, whether the Creevey brothers were any improved over the summer. All of these thoughts swirled in his head, lulling him to sleep. On the back of his eyelids he could positively see the scene as he handed the Cup to McGonagall, the entire school on its feet and one dark-haired girl dressed in green and silver especially, chanting, "Gryffindor! Gryffindor! Gryffindor!"

* * * * *

On the bright side, at least Quidditch practice that night couldn't have gone any worse.

Ron was feeling quite woozy on his broom and was hoarse from yelling. Harry was flying horribly and had gone an hour into practice without yet seeing the Snitch. Colin (who had been released that afternoon despite Pomfrey's reluctance) and Dennis were in their own little world, knocking the Bludgers back and forth to each other, nearly hitting Natalie MacDonald and Jack Sloper off their brooms as Ginny led them in formation to dive-bomb the stands.

It probably had something to do with the fact that the Slytherin team and their groupies, led by Draco Malfoy of course, were being a bit rude.

"You wreak of haggis and you fly like arse, Potter!"

Actually, they were being rather normal for them, but Ginny had given it as an excuse to practice the Hawkshead Attacking Formation, and who was Ron to argue?

After the Slytherins had regrouped following Ginny's recent attack, they began again their newest chant. "Creepy Creeveys beat their balls! Creepy Creeveys have great falls! Creepy Creeveys are knee deep in Potter stink!"

"You could at least try to rhyme!" Ginny screamed, swooping again and scattering a small group of girls.

"Ginny!" Ron yelled finally. They only had six weeks before the season opened with the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor match, and if they wanted the Cup they would have to focus.

"Go fuck yourself, Malfoy!" Harry yelled, hovering beside Ginny, who appeared for the time being to have abandoned diving in favor of just yelling.

"It's biologically impossible. Believe me, I've tried," Draco replied. The Slytherin groupies shrieked with laughter.

"You must be really hard up, Malfoy," Ginny countered, "to try to fuck something that disgusting!"

"Fuck you, Weasel girl!" Teeny called.

Ginny smiled. "Is that an invitation, Teeny? Because I heard you worked on a first-serve, first-come basis."

"You better shut your mouth--" Draco threatened, pulling his wand.

Harry and Ginny pulled their wands, too. Ron put his head in his hand. Jack and Natalie were passing a Quaffle high above the pitch, and the Creevey brothers were nowhere to be seen. At least they wouldn't be caught in the crossfire like last season, when the younger players had spent a weekend in the hospital wing with hooves after a particularly interesting altercation at practice.

"Is wittle Dwaco gonna hurt us with his wittle magic stick?" Harry teased.

Several more Slytherins drew their wands.

This was getting out of hand. Ron flew over, ducking a Bludger that came from nowhere (Dennis' specialty). Ginny had conjured a flame and was tossing it back and forth in her hands, and Harry's face was white with fury.

"You'd be amazed at what I can do with this, Potter. Things you've never even dreamed of." Draco's voice was low and dangerous. His housemates were tightening in a circle around him, whether seeking protection or offering it, Ron was not sure.

"Save it," Ron said as he pulled level with Harry and Ginny, getting in the small space between them. "Let's get back to practice."

"You're going to need all the practice you can get," Malfoy called. The Slytherins huddled around him snickered.

"Not worth it," Ron hissed at Harry, who had moved as if he was thinking of diving right into that ball of Slytherins and spearing Draco through the ribcage with his broom handle.

"That's right!" Teeny hollered. "Not worth getting your arses kicked. Might as well throw your broomsticks in now. Anyone who's a Cannons fan must be insane. You're probably catching it from Longbottom."

It happened very quickly in a blur of red and a streak of fire. Ginny tossed the flame she had been playing with into the air above her, swung her broomstick out from under her, and smacked the flame right at Teeny. Clearly not expecting it, the Slytherins didn't even duck, and Ginny was straddling her broom again before Teeny even realized that her hair was on fire.

Oddly enough, it took several seconds before anyone reacted at all. And then there was screaming. Lots of it.

"You'll pay for this, Weasel girl!" Draco shouted as he chased after Teeny, who was running around in a circle, flapping her arms like a fledgling baby bird.

"You know I can't afford it, anyway," Ginny yelled triumphantly, looping on her broom and heading back to Jack and Natalie.

"I'm watching you, Malfoy!" Harry glared at Draco as Ron pulled him back to the pitch.

"Come on, Harry," Ron said, trying forcibly not to laugh. "I think Ginny did enough damage for today. She'll have detention for sure."

"You don't suppose she can do that with a Quaffle and not just a flame?" Harry asked, his attention returned to practice at last, watching Ginny demonstrate how to effectively palm and tuck a Quaffle.

Ron nodded, not bothering to hide his look of pride. "We practiced all summer. She's got a few more tricks up her sleeve, too. Just wait until she can use them. She's our secret weapon."

"Cool," Harry said, grinning. "No mercy." He held out his fist.

Ron knocked his fist down on top of Harry's, Harry knocked his back on top of Ron's, and then they tapped knuckles. "None shall be spared."

"What happened?" asked Dennis, pulling up beside them, winded.

"Were those Slytherins? What did they want?" Colin asked at the same time, panting slightly.

"It's the Slytherins, Colin," Ginny said, annoyed but still glowing with triumph. "What do they always want?"

Colin and Dennis shrugged their shoulders and mustered looks of complete blankness.

Ginny threw her hands up in the air. "Slytherins, Colin! Minions of evil, Dennis! Think about it!"

Colin and Dennis looked at each other and shrugged again.

"More dark wizards than any other house. Gryffindor rivals for centuries." Ginny counted on her fingers. "Proud producers of such famous personalities as Salazar Slytherin, Grindelwald, Tom Riddle, and Lucius Malfoy."

"Who's Tom Riddle?" Dennis asked Colin.

Ginny rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Voldemort? Hello?"

Natalie slipped sideways off her broom, but thankfully, Jack caught her. In the distance, the Slytherins had reached the castle doors and were pouring inside, no doubt going directly to Snape to demand that Ginny be expelled.

"They're evil, that's what," Ginny said finally. "They were put on this planet for the soul purpose of making our lives hell. They want to see us fail. They want to see us suffer. They probably wouldn't even mind seeing us dead. But you know what?"

"What?" Colin and Dennis said in unison.

"They'll win this Cup over my dead and mutilated body. I'm not fucking around this year. It's our year this year. The minute we succumb to their intimidation, it's all over. We must rise up and overcome!" Ginny jammed her fist into the air enthusiastically, a fire burning in her eyes.

Ron and Harry exchanged looks. Jack and Natalie backed away a bit. Dennis cocked his head to one side, but finally, it was Colin who spoke.

"Oh. I just thought maybe they wanted their Bludgers back. We wanted to practice with four, so we just borrowed theirs."

Ginny turned a bit pink and lowered her fist. "Of course," she mumbled, looking anywhere but at Ron, who was silently laughing.

"I say we don't give them back," Harry said mutinously. Then his eyes widened and he tore off on his broom, returning in a moment with the Snitch fluttering in his fist, a look of pure glee on his face.

Ron saw Snape come flapping out of the castle doors and down the slope of lawn leading to the pitch, moving at a very determined pace. "Perhaps we should wrap it up for tonight," Ron said haltingly. "I think we've had enough excitement for one evening. Same time next week?"

The team members all nodded and they returned slowly to the ground. Snape was waiting for Ginny when she landed.

"Miss Weasley, I have just been told that you lit Miss Nott's hair on fire?" He stood with his arms crossed his chest.

"I was actually aiming for Malfoy, but nobody's perfect," Ginny said, brushing past Snape and heading for the changing room.

Snape caught her arm. "Detention, Miss Weasley. Thursday night at eight. Bring a friend."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Bring a friend?"

Snape shook his head slightly. "Fronds. We'll be working with fronds."

"Fronds, sir?" Ginny asked again.

"Thursday at eight." Snape turned dramatically on his heel and whisked himself back off to the castle.

"I think he's been in Sprout's stash as well," Harry whispered to Ron.

Ron giggled. "I wonder if Dumbledore knows."

"They're in on it together. Sprout, Snape, and Dumbledore, sitting around the lounge, spiking their tea, thinking of ways to get McGonagall to loosen up."

"Sure you haven't been joining them?" Ron laughed, even though he had his suspicions about Harry and all things concerning mind-altering substances. They were meeting with Neville that night to start getting the Whacky Technicolour Freakout! Potion together, something Harry was very keen on. Apparently, the last ingredient came in the post that morning, and they were using tonight, when Hermione was on her rounds, to seal themselves up in their dormitory for a few hours and get down to business.

* * * * *

Neville carefully set out all of the ingredients on his bed. There were about ten plants they had taken from Greenhouse Eight, which Ron recognized not by name but by their spectacular coloring. They were all back to their normal sizes now and formed a lively patchwork of fronds, leaves, and spines against Neville's duvet. Next to the plants, Neville set a mortar and pestle, a rack of glass vials, a sieve, and a tiny scale. Then he pulled a small package from his pocket. Neville pulled back the corner of the newspaper wrapping and sniffed at whatever was inside, and then turned to the rest of the Gryffindor boys, who were equal parts apprehensive and curious, and gave them a huge grin.

"This is some good Sugar Swag," he said, handing the small package to Harry, who held it up to his nose and inhaled tentatively.

"Mmmm," Harry said, sniffing it once more before handing it to Ron.

"Sugar Swag?" Ron asked, taking the package.

"I had to order it from Amsterdam. It's illegal everywhere else." Neville sat down on the edge of his bed, looking rather proud of himself for stepping around such small an inconvenience as the law. "Go on, then. It smells like chocolate biscuits."

Never taking his eyes off Neville, Ron held the package to his nose. It did smell like biscuits. It smelled like fresh-baked gingersnaps, chocolate chips, and sugar dough all at the same time. It was divine. It was absolutely divine. It was manna from heaven, the very stuff that angels were made of. It was like nothing Ron had ever smelled before. It was ambrosia. It was--

"Pass it on," Seamus growled, finally snatching the package from Ron.

After everyone had experienced the delightful aroma of the Amsterdam Sugar Swag, Neville took the small package back and set it down next to the other ingredients. He pulled out the edition of Herb Times and read through the recipe one last time.

"It takes two weeks to brew and four to cure," Neville said, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as he perused the article.

"So we have just enough time before Halloween?" Dean said, stooping to open his trunk.

"If we start tonight," Harry said, stepping forward so that he was reading over Neville's shoulder. "What should I do?"

"Grab the mortar and pestle and that plant there," Neville instructed, pointing to something that had waving orange leaves. "We need to pluck the leaves and wring them into the cauldron, then grind what's left into a fine powder, which we put in after the roots of that," Neville pointed to something with turquoise spines.

"I'm glad you're taking NEWT level Potions," Seamus said offhandedly as he took an old cauldron from his trunk and set it down on his desk, which was littered with parchment scraps, dirty socks, and a stack of "wizard" magazines.

"If Hermione catches us, we're dead," Ron muttered as he helped Harry squeeze the juice from the orange leaves, staining his hands in the process. It smelled like ink.

"I don't think she'll be up here any time soon," Harry said. "I mean, she's got Terry now, what does she need with us? And besides, we can hide it in Dean's trunk. He's already offered." A squirt of the orange liquid hit the left lens of Harry's glasses and he gave a start.

Ron laughed. "I hope this works."

"Me too," Harry said, wiping his glasses off on the corner of his shirt, chuckling sourly. "I don't know about you, but I could use a reprieve from the confined structures of my consciousness. And Seamus said he knew a kid whose cousin took this stuff who said that it was the coolest thing he's ever done, and that included going to a nude beach in France."

"They have nude beaches in France?"

"Loads," Harry said. "Dudley went there for holiday with one of his friends and brought back pictures."

"Wicked. We should go this summer," Ron said enthusiastically. "I mean, if we're not in Auror training already and what not."

"Totally," Harry grinned, lighting the flame beneath the cauldron with his wand. "We'll need a nice break after this year, I have a feeling."

There was something dark behind his eyes, but Ron didn't approach it. Instead, he stirred the orange inky juice with his wand, watching as the heat changed it from orange to blood red. Neville came over and dumped in something shredded and sparkling bright green, and it formed a serpentine line in the bubbling red before it sunk beneath the surface and disappeared.

* * * * *

Friday passed by in a blur of shapes and sounds as Pansy drifted in and out of sleep in the bright hospital wing. She had had strange dreams about the Weasley family and a pack of wild dogs, and another that Ron had actually been in the hospital wing and they had drank firewhisky until they passed out. She was vaguely aware that Morag and Millicent came to visit her, bringing her books, but she was sure she wasn't coherent. Her fever came back again and again, and when the Saturday sun shattered the dark of the hospital wing, Pansy found herself lucid at last, after 36 hours of relative unconsciousness.

She sat up very slowly, blinking back the breaking dawn and taking in her surroundings. There were several others in the hospital wing, although Pansy could not distinguish who they were. Her throat felt scratchy and parched. On her nightstand there was a glass of water, which she eagerly raised to her lips. Also on her nightstand, she noticed with a hint of amusement, were several small gifts of candy and a small stack of post. She languidly read through the pile: cards from Morag and Millicent, a note from Snape announcing that her week of detentions were to begin that Monday evening at eight, a brief missive from Hermione Granger excusing her from prefect duties that Saturday night (Hannah Abbot was to take her place), and at the bottom, most surprisingly, was a small piece of pink parchment, folded in half once. Pansy curiously opened it and read:

Here's to a swift and full recovery! Daphne and I will be so delighted when you are well again! Love, Teeny

Pansy crumpled the note, stuffed it into her water glass, pulled the covers back over her head, and hoped to sleep through the rest of the year. It just wasn't fair. Teeny had sunk her claws into Draco, which Pansy had chalked up to hormones and bad manners, but now Daphne? That was pure spite. Whatever Teeny was up to, she was doing a fair job of it. Pansy wondered bitterly if pajamas could come between her and Daphne, what would it take to turn Millicent? What would be the final straw for Morag? And above all, what was the point?

"Miss Parkinson?" Madam Pomfrey implored from the other side of the blankets in a crisp voice.

Pansy pulled the covers off her head and glared at the mediwitch.

"How are you feeling today, dear?" Pomfrey sat on the edge of her bed, feeling her forehead with the back of her cold, papery hand. "Your fever has broken at last, thank goodness."

Pansy nodded.

"And I see you've finished your water. It is important that you are properly hydrated before you return to your dormitory." Pomfrey rose quickly and bustled off to a far corner of the room, returning minutes later with a carafe of pumpkin juice and a clean glass, which she filled and held out for Pansy to take.

Pansy pushed herself upright, resting against her pillows. Her entire body was stiff and a little sore. She smiled weakly as she raised the glass of juice to her lips. It was cool and soothed her throat. "Thanks," Pansy said, after she had drank half the glass in a few chugs.

Pomfrey looked at Pansy sympathetically, reaching out to smooth Pansy's dark hair, which was wild and tangled from restless sleep. "Poor dear. Stay as long as you'd like, but you are free to go as soon as you feel up to it."

Pansy smiled again. At least one person was being nice to her. "Thanks, but I should go back. I've got homework." She finished the juice in a few swallows.

Pomfrey smiled and took the empty glass from Pansy. "Suit yourself. Maybe stay through lunch? Just to make sure?"

"Okay," Pansy said finally.

Satisfied, Pomfrey smiled again and took the carafe and the empty glasses with her as she hustled off to another waking student down the line of mostly empty beds. Pansy sighed and settled back into her narrow bed. Something sharp caught her side, and she quickly felt to see what it was. She pulled it out of the covers and was dumbstruck: a brass bottle cap bearing the Ogden's Old Fashioned Firewhisky logo, still sticky on the underside where the liquor had dried. Impossible, Pansy thought, curling her fingers around the sharp edges of the cap and pulling the covers back over her head. This can't be happening to me. She turned the cap over and over in her right hand while the fingertips of her left gently touched her dry lips. She closed her eyes and tried to remember how he tasted, but that memory was lost to fever dreams and wild imaginings. Pansy closed her eyes, clenching the bottle cap, and drifted back to sleepy thoughts of Ron, all of which were perfectly memorable, rationally excusable, and exceptionally unmentionable.

* * * * *

When Ron arrived for prefect duties Saturday night, he was really quite relieved to see Hannah Abbott standing in the middle of the entrance hall, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and her prefect badge pinned neatly to her blue jumper. He liked Hannah. Hannah wasn't prickly, maybe a little happy-go-lucky, but definitely an improvement over his regular partner. Definitely. Absolutely, one hundred percent, better than Pansy Parkinson.

He grinned wide, jumping over the last few steps and landing next to her as she giggled. "Ready for the six hour shift from hell?" He asked with a smile, pulling his prefect badge from the pocket of his faded jeans and pinning it loosely to the collar of his shirt.

"Ready when you are!" Hannah answered brightly, pulling her wand from behind her back and starting up the steps. Ron watched as she climbed, her ponytail swaying with her hips and bobbing with every stair.

They discussed classes on the first floor, NEWTs on the second, the chances for each of the house Quidditch teams on the third (Hannah had total faith in Zacharias Smith to lead their team to victory this year), and by the time they were on the fourth floor, Ron was running out of things to say. But Hannah was pretty. Hannah was nice. Hannah smelled like vanilla. And she was definitely an improvement over Pansy, although he wondered how long this evening would seem if by the first hour he was bored out of his wits. But still, it was definitely an improvement. Absolutely, one hundred percent, better than Pansy Parkinson.

"So," Ron asked, "how are you managing to take on two extra shifts this week?"

"Well, Pansy is supposed to cover my two shifts next weekend, so we'll be even. We're trading. Not that I wouldn't do it normally, but Hermione said that it was more fair this way," Hannah said, smiling at Ron before quickly turning away.

"Oh," Ron said, furrowing his brow. "So she has to take two shifts with Malfoy next week?"

"I guess," Hannah said breezily, poking her head into a classroom.

"That's got to be hell," Ron said to himself, as they passed the library. The sight of the announcement board gave him a sudden idea. "They announced the Hogsmeade weekend already," Ron said, hoping that he had latched onto a topic worthy of a conversation lasting more than five minutes.

"Oh, yes!" Hannah said cheerfully. "The Ravenclaws saw them posted first. Padma Patil told me all about it at breakfast yesterday. Seems there is quite a rush to get coupled up. Ernie, Zacharias, and Justin are all taking girls from Ravenclaw, you know Ernie's dating Padma, right? Professor Sprout says they had considered banning Hogsmeade visits all together, but Dumbledore wouldn't hear of it. I suppose it's because of security, at least that's what Ernie thinks," Hannah babbled on, twirling her ponytail with her wand as they walked through the brightly lit library corridor. She really was pretty, in a wonderfully uncomplicated way. She was the kind of girl Ron wouldn't have any qualms taking home to meet his parents, even in the wake of Hermione.

"So, who are you going to Hogsmeade with?" Hannah asked suddenly, catching Ron looking at her.

"Well, er..." Ron began clumsily.

"Because Susan and I were planning to do some Christmas shopping, and maybe you and Harry would like to join us?" Hannah's blue eyes glittered warmly. "And, just between you and me," Hannah whispered, leaning in close enough for Ron to get a good whiff of the vanilla perfume she was wearing, "I think Susan and Harry would make an excellent couple."

Ron grinned broadly and perhaps a bit stupidly. He wouldn't have to spend the weekend with Neville playing with plants after all! Hoorah! "That would be great!"

Hannah smiled sweetly, and moved enough away from Ron so that their sleeves just touched as they walked. "I think so, too."

They walked on for a time in companionable silence. Ron's step was a bit bouncier. He had a date for Hogsmeade! And Hannah was surely better for him than Terry was for Hermione. Surely. And Hannah was sweet and pretty and thoroughly non-threatening, which was a good thing, right? He liked this idea. This was quite possibly the best idea he'd had all year.

On the fifth floor, Ron inquired after which professional Quidditch team Hannah supported, and was alarmed to learn that she had none. On the sixth floor, she agreed that the Slytherins were deplorable, and she just couldn't understand why Draco Malfoy was made Head Boy. On the seventh floor, next to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, while Hannah was talking in hushed tones about how everyone agreed that Pansy Parkinson should have gotten expelled for her "gross disrespect of authority," Ron felt suddenly a bit squirmy, like he needed to change the topic, when something occurred to him. Hannah was a girl. Hannah knew about girl stuff. Hannah knew how girls worked. "Erm, Hannah?"

"Yeah Ron?"

"How does a bloke find out if a girl likes him?" Ron kept his eyes averted.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Well, I've got this friend, and he thinks this girl might like him, but he's not sure. And he can't just go up and ask her," Ron said quickly.

"Why not? Most girls would be very flattered if Harry had an interest in them."

For all of Hannah's virtues, she could be thankfully dim when she put her mind to it. "He just can't. The situation is awfully complicated. And he can't ask her friends, either. Harry's shy like that." Ron hoped he sounded convincing.

"Well, you could ask me, I suppose, and then I could ask around or something," Hannah offered.

"No, I don't think Harry would like that."

"Well, in that case...." Hannah stopped in the middle of the hallway, digging in the pockets of her trousers for a minute. Finally, she handed Ron a small business card. "Try this."

"Madley, Branstone, and Dobbs. Private Witch Detective Agency. Proudly serving Hogwarts since 1995," Ron read. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"They have been extremely helpful to me in the past. They are also discrete and affordable, like it says on the back," Hannah said, pointing at the back of the card.

Ron turned the card over, and words appeared. Discrete. Affordable. Guaranteed. "So, what do they do?"

Hannah looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know, I'm not entirely sure of their methods, but they are effective. The first meeting is free, so you might as well give it a shot. They specialize in affairs of the heart. Just send a note by school owl, and it will find them."

Ron eyed the card warily. "I've never even heard of them before."

"They operate solely on client referrals," Hannah said seriously. "I'm sure Harry and his lucky girl will thank you for it later." She smiled brightly and skipped off down the hall.

Ron stuffed the card into his back pocket. He might as well give it a shot. What could it hurt, anyway? He caught up with Hannah. "I don't suppose you'd mind stopping by Gryffindor Tower so that I can grab some parchment?"

"Not at all," Hannah said. "And we can stop by the owlery when we get there."

"Thanks, Hannah," Ron said, sincerely meaning it. "I appreciate it."

Hannah smiled. "It's not like we don't have time, is it?"

Ron laughed as he turned around to face the Fat Lady, whispered the password, and got the things he needed. He scribbled a quick note, using his thigh as a platform, paused, and hastily added a secondary request. While he was at it, he might as well ask about Harry's would-be killer. After all, it never hurts to ask.

* * * * *

Pansy put off going back to the Slytherin common room for as long as humanly possible. But she came to a point in her convalescence when she knew if she drank another drop of pumpkin juice she would just be forced to hurt someone, and really, Pomfrey had sort of grown on her. And she missed her bed. So she put her slippers and her purple fuzzy jumper back on over her hospital wing pajamas and padded down softly to the dungeons. It was past dinner, and Pansy knew that the common room would probably be sparsely populated. Hufflepuff had Quidditch practice at this time, and the team would be down heckling them, so she would avoid the people she found most avoidable.

When the stone wall disguising the entrance to the common room refused to open, Pansy had a brief moment of panic, which was soon replaced with a low bubbling anger. "They changed the password," Pansy hissed, "and they didn't tell me." She leaned forward so that her forehead rested against the immobile stone before her. "I don't believe it."

"Oh, you better believe it."

Pansy turned her head as Teeny emerged from the shadows at the end of the hall. "What are you doing here?" Pansy asked in the most murderous tones she could muster. Unfortunately, all of that pumpkin juice had taken the gravel out of her voice.

Teeny shrugged. "Just making sure you made it back all right."

"I don't like you," Pansy said between clenched teeth.

"I don't like you either," Teeny replied, smiling sweetly.

"Why are you doing this?" Pansy asked, banging her forehead very lightly against the stone.

"Oh, I don't know," Teeny said flippantly. "Maybe because I think you are a disgrace to Slytherin. Or maybe it's because I don't like your hair. Or maybe it's because I find your company utterly boring. Or maybe," Teeny paused, picking an imaginary piece of lint from her robes, "I want what you have."

"You have Draco," Pansy said tightly. "I thought you would be happy with that."

Teeny smiled again, but this time it was predatory. "Not everything is about Draco."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Right."

"Well," Teeny whispered, leaning closer to Pansy, "he might have a bit part. But as far as I'm concerned, you're in my world now, on my terms, in MY House." She turned to face the wall and said clearly, "Falmouth Falcons, the team of TRUE Slytherins, unlike the Cannons, who suck."

The stone wall slid open and Teeny smirked as she walked across the threshold. After a moment's hesitation, Pansy followed, walking past Teeny perched on the arm of one of the black leather couches beside her brother. They both glared at Pansy as she walked swiftly past them, making a beeline for her dormitory, her sanctuary, her bed.

Once securely in her room, Pansy took a few deep breaths with her back pressed firmly against the door. She slowly slid down it until she was sitting on the floor and rested her head on her knees for a moment. Then she pitched forward and crawled on her hands and knees to her trunk. She lifted the lid, dug around until she found what she was looking for, and then crawled into bed, miserably clinging to her favorite stuffed toy yak named Bill, whose appearance, despite the tear in the leg and the stuffing coming out of the tummy, was a calming one. She would not cry. She would not get emotional. This was a situation that called not for hysterics, but for tactics. She needed to plan and devise. She needed to think this through. But first, she needed chocolate and a moment with Bill.

* * * * *

Ron stood in one of the darkest corners of the library, peering at the titles on the second to last shelf in this section. He had no idea what he was doing. He had received an owl post that morning that contained only two pieces of information: a book title and a time. So here he was, one-thirty on the dot, but he could not find Muggle Interpretations of the Wizarding World in Literature. He was sure he was in the right section. He had even gone to the trouble of asking Madam Pince, despite the unpleasant and unbidden images that even the sight of her brought to his mind. Curse Neville and his overactive and sick imagination! And curse Hannah for being helpful and too nice not to trust! And curse Muggles for even having literature, let alone writing about wizards! And, while he was at it, curse Pansy Parkinson for--

Oh, he thought brightly, there it is! He pulled the huge volume off the shelf, which was just at chest level for him and thumbed through it lazily. He didn't know what he expected, necessarily, maybe for something to fall out of the book, maybe for another clue that led him to another location. He had no idea how spies worked. He flipped the book upside down, and, holding it by the spine, shook it roughly. The only thing that came out was a cloud of dust. He sighed, and made to slide the book back into its place on the shelf, when he was given quite a fright.

On the other side of the shelf, a pair of brown eyes were peering at him in the space where the book had been. The eyes appeared to be set in a happy-looking face, which broke into a smile upon seeing the startled look on Ron's face. "Madley, Branstone, and Dobbs, at your service," the face spoke. Then the face disappeared, and a hand came through the gap in the books.

"Er..." Ron said, shaking it awkwardly.

"So, what brings you to us?"

"Er..." Ron said again. How should he put this?

"Is it girl trouble?" a disembodied voice drifted through the gap in the books. Ron leaned against the shelf, trying to make it look like he was reading the book he held.

"Not really," Ron whispered.

"Boy trouble?"

"That's sort of the second part of it."

"Really?" The voice sounded genuinely intrigued.

"Yes, really," Ron said testily. Talking to someone he couldn't see was not one of Ron's favored pastimes. "Okay, look," he said, turning so that he was more or less looking through the gap in the books. The face was gone and all he could see were small hands with red fingernails clasping an open book. "Here's the deal: I want to find out some information on a certain person, who happens to be a girl, just the basics, because I'm curious, and I also need to see if someone in the castle is trying to kill a friend of mine. It's sort of a favor."

Slowly, the red hands closed the book and there was a thoughtful silence. "Right. The first part is pretty standard, run-of-the-mill detective work. I can have those results to you by breakfast tomorrow. The second part is a little bit more of a trick. I'll need some information from you, of course, and the results will take an undetermined length of time."

"And the cost?" Ron asked quietly.

"This one's on the house."

"Excuse me?" Ron was taken aback.

"Considering who you are and who your friends are, the firm of Madley, Branstone, and Dobbs has chosen to waive the fee."

"Because I'm friends with Harry Potter?" Ron asked incredulously.

"That," the voice said in an amused whisper, "and we might know someone who knows someone who thinks you're all that and a bag of chips."

Ron blushed. "Oh, okay." That good old Weasley charm, hard at work again.

"So," the voice said brightly, "write down what you want to know on a sheet of parchment, put it in that book, and walk away. I'll retrieve it, do the detective work, and give you results and any follow-up information as it becomes available to us. Sound like a plan?"

"Sure," Ron said, checking his pockets. "Er... you wouldn't happen to have a quill, would you?"

The voice sighed and passed an expensive looking self-inking quill through the gap on the bookshelf. Ron pulled out a sheet of parchment from his back pocket, which happened to be a sketchy outline of a Quidditch strategy he and Harry were discussing at lunch. He smoothed out the creases in the parchment and flattened it against the book and wrote two questions. 1) Who is Pansy Parkinson? 2) Who is trying to kill Harry Potter? (Besides You Know Who, because everyone knows about him) Then he slipped the parchment back into the middle of the book with the quill, slid the book back onto the shelf, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and stepped out from the dark row of books, wondering if he'd done the right thing.

Lost in thought, he barely registered the faces of the people who were dodging out of his way as he left the library in haste until he looked up suddenly, and there was Pansy Parkinson, looking down at a list in her hand, cradling a large book. She was headed right for him, eyes downcast, and then, when she was just a few steps away, she dodged left without yet looking up.

It all would have been graceful and well timed, and Ron would have escaped the library without running into Pansy, but he dodged left, too. Which caused them to be standing chest to chest, less than six inches between them, looking each other in the eyes before they both broke the gaze.

Pansy looked left out the window, and Ron looked right at Pince's desk, hastily running his left hand through his hair. "Er... feeling better?" Again, something that was meant to be harmless was full of import. He had mentioned Pansy's sickness, which brought to mind the last time they had been together in the hospital wing. Ron blushed, still looking away, and stuffed his hand back into his pocket. "Right. Well, see you later."

"Right," Pansy muttered.

Neither of them moved. After several seconds, Pansy looked up at Ron and this time he did not look away. Pansy held out the fat book she was holding to Ron and he took it without thinking. Then she reached into the pockets of her robes and pulled something out. She held it up to him between forefinger and thumb.

Ron stared incredulously at the Ogden's Old Fashioned Firewhisky logo and did not breathe. He held out a hand, and Pansy pressed the bottle cap into his palm. The metal was slightly warm and glinted in the dusty afternoon sun that came through the library windows. "I think you left this in the hospital wing," she said quietly, taking back her book and walking away, leaving Ron standing, like she usually did, alone, bewildered, heart beating slightly erratically, and with the stupidest damn look on his face that anyone had ever seen.