Pariah

Pariah, Chapter Five

A Week of Detentions and an Interlude in the Kitchens

The night is long, going gone, and on the other side of darkness tomorrow comes along.

Monday, September 22. 8:17 PM

Pansy stumbled through the door to the Potions classroom, admittedly, a little late. And then she turned on her heel and stumbled back out.

Ron Weasley was down on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor, wearing what appeared to be his Quidditch guards, his sleeves bunched up to his elbows. She hadn't seen him since Sunday afternoon in the library, and she certainly hadn't been expecting to see him now.

In the hall, Pansy caught her breath (she had just sprinted down five staircases from the library in her stompy boots while carrying twenty pounds of books), smoothed her hair, and adjusted her robes.

"Miss Parkinson, when you're ready?" Snape's voice echoed out of the classroom, bounced off of the unevenly hewn stone walls, and slapped Pansy to her senses. She took another deep breath, squared her shoulders, adjusted the stack of books she held cradled on her hip, and stepped back into the classroom.

Ron grinned over his shoulder at her, and went back to scrubbing. Actually, it was more of a smirk than a grin, and Pansy felt herself smirk/grin in return.

"You may discard your robes and join Weasley on the floor, Miss Parkinson." Snape sat at his desk, marking a stack of papers by candlelight. He looked sallow and gaunt as usual, only perhaps a little bit surlier.

"Yes, sir," Pansy said, taking off her uniform robes and laying them gently down on one of the tables beside her stack of books. It was especially cold in here tonight, and she had an inkling that the bucket of suds wasn't much warmer.

"You will be scouring the floor until I am satisfied that I could eat from it," Snape continued, looking up at Pansy while he dipped his quill in his inkpot.

Pansy dropped gently to her knees beside Ron, who straightened up momentarily to stretch his back. It popped several times, and he groaned softly low in his throat. It went right through Pansy's body like a shock. Suddenly, it didn't seem quite so cold.

"Do you want the pink scrub brush or the lilac?" Ron asked, fishing another brush from the bucket. He was grinning that half-smirk again that made Pansy wonder what he knew that she didn't.

"I think I'll take the lilac," Pansy said apprehensively, grabbing the brush Ron had been using previously.

"Suit yourself." Ron shrugged and began scrubbing with the pink brush. Some hair fell into his eyes and he blew it away in a brief flash of breath.

"Fine." Pansy mimicked Ron's posture and began scrubbing the floor. Soon enough, her kneecaps were screaming at the cold stone, but the actual scrubbing wasn't so hard, really, just damned uncomfortable. After about five minutes, Pansy looked up to find Ron watching her. "What?" she snapped.

"You'll never get it clean unless you put your back into it," Ron said authoritatively. "Look! You're not even scrubbing, you're just pushing the water about on the floor."

Pansy looked down at the small spot of floor she had been working on, and then she glanced over at where Ron was working. Where hers was clear and glassy, his was actually sudsy and sort of green-brown.

"Here," Ron said, leaning across her and putting his hands, which were ice-cold, on top of hers. "You've got to push down," he said, at the same time that he actually pushed down and pulled back, leaving a line of green-brown suds in the wake of the brush. The motion brought their bodies close enough together that she could see the little pricks of sweat on his long, freckled nose and how his hair hung damp across his forehead. He smelled simultaneously brisk like autumn, spicy like sweat, and dank like wet stone.

"Oh," was all Pansy could trust herself to say. She got a brief flash of his blue eyes lit with a wry amusement, and then his hands were gone as he leaned into his brush, a thin line of sweat along his back soaking his shirt so that it was darkly translucent where it stuck to the softly defined ridge of his spine. She dipped her brush back in the bucket and just about screamed. The water couldn't have been more than five degrees above freezing. She glanced at Ron, ready to complain, but he did not look up from his section of stone.

They scrubbed in silence, occasionally catching each other's eye. Left to her thoughts and the deadening pain in her knees, Pansy over and over again returned to the humiliating scene at lunch yesterday when she had been forced to sit on the very edge of her group of friends, a term she now used loosely. Seating arrangements were a big deal at the Slytherin table. Whoever sat nearest the middle of the group was the center of attention, and the popularity radiated out from that person. For years, it had been Draco at the center of their group, and until the end of last term, Pansy had sat right beside him. Across from Draco always sat Gregory and Vincent. This term, Pansy, Morag, Millicent and Daphne had all sat to one side of Gregory, with Theodore and Blaise on the other side of Vincent. And so they had done, and so everyone had been happy.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, Pansy had been late for lunch, which wasn't her fault, since Flitwick had held her up in the Charms corridor. But Pansy was always late, usually independent of the situation. It was something that they all knew about her, and something that they all accounted for. But when she had arrived at the Slytherin table, it was as if she wasn't just held up, but as if she didn't exist at all.

Draco sat in the center, next to Teeny (a staple since the end of last term), and Gregory and Vincent sat across. Daphne sat between Teeny and Blaise, Millicent sat next to Gregory, and Morag sat next to Draco across from Theodore. And all around Blaise, Millicent, Theodore, and Morag were arranged various prefects, Quidditch players, and Teeny's obnoxious friends. In fact, there wasn't an empty seat within ten places of her dormitory mates. So Pansy had stared, Draco had smirked, Teeny had smiled prettily, Daphne had turned her head, Millicent had whispered in Gregory's ear, and Morag had looked slightly embarrassed.

That night she confronted them.

"Teeny's not that bad," Daphne had said seriously. "And besides, you did embarrass all of us last week with that little stunt you pulled in the Great Hall."

Morag had nodded morosely. "It was a bit embarrassing, she's right. And Draco and Theodore had a question about the Charms assignment. Draco said since you aren't talking to him anymore he really is at a loss, and, I don't know, I guess I just felt bad for him, or something."

"Gregory really needs my support right now, with all that his family is going through," Millicent said, looking purely sympathetic. "I'm really sorry, Pans, but everyone's just a touch upset with you."

"And you know..."

"... we would've made room..."

"...but there really wasn't any."

And Pansy had yanked the hangings closed on her four-poster and sat up until late in the night, trying to come up with a plan. She needed something inspired, something so clever that Teeny never in a million years would expect it, something that would leave no doubt in anyone's mind who ran this house. She'd be damned if she was going to be out-Slytherined by some little girl with a daddy complex and a Malfoy on her arm.

And so, every break and every meal period since found Pansy in the library, sustained by sheer will and a stash of chocolate she had filched from the hospital wing on Saturday. She had finished all of her essays for the week, copied Padma's Defense notes, and managed to eek out an outline for her History of Magic project, despite being interrupted several times by a nosy fourth year Hufflepuff girl and being gawked at by the Creevey brothers, who, by the looks on their faces, had never seen a Slytherin in the library before. By the time she had realized she was going to be late for detention, she also had a few very clever ideas about what to do about this Teeny situation. She just had to wait for the opportunity to present itself.

Having scrubbed the entire surface beneath the student tables, they finally stopped when they reached the door. Pansy's back was aching, her knees were sore, and she was sweating through her button down, which was just gross. Then the cold caught up with her, and she shivered violently, feeling every inch of her skin contract.

"We've only got that bit left over around the sinks, and then up by Snape's desk," Ron said, standing up slowly. Stretching, he arched backwards, revealing that smooth sliver of belly, the torchlight flickering across it, highlighting the shallow rippling of muscles as he moved.

Pansy shook her head and stood up beside him, rubbing her knees. "You were smart to wear knee pads," Pansy said miserably. She knew she'd have bruises. At least she was wearing trousers. Although, really, what choice did she have with all of her knickers stolen?

Ron was looking thoughtfully at her. "Here," he said decisively, bending to unbuckle his Quidditch guards from around his calves. "You can wear them, if you want." He held them out to her.

She took them, after a moment. "Thanks."

Ron shrugged. "No problem."

Pansy strapped them to her shins, buckling them as tight as she could. They were still a bit big, but they'd work. When she had them on, Ron bent down and gave each a gentle thwap with his knuckles.

"I'd say that'd do it." He grinned up at her and picked up the bucket, which held their two brushes.

"If you're quite done flirting, you still have half a classroom to scour," Snape hissed from his desk.

Ron blushed. Pansy looked down at her feet. They made their way to the other end of the classroom, water sloshing slightly in the bucket as Ron set it down next to the sinks. When they got down to the floor and began scrubbing again, their shoulders grazed and touched, neither moving away until it became necessary to begin work on another spot. And then they worked quietly, at a somewhat more relaxed pace, feet and hands sometimes brushing, eyes occasionally locking.

Pansy, although sufficiently horrified that she was, in front of her own Head of House, flirting with Ron Weasley, a Gryffindor, and Harry Potter's best friend to boot, couldn't help feeling just a touch proud of herself. This would appall Draco.

Their scrubbing had a rhythm to it, and Pansy realized that they were, in fact, working in synchronized motion: the rough drag of bristles on stone the only sound filling her ears. Ksscht, ksscht, ksscht.

Suddenly, Ron stopped scrubbing. He was several feet away, working at the very edge of the sink. He was perfectly still; his eyes narrowed slightly, his brow creased where his eyebrows pulled together. Pansy stopped scrubbing, too, and followed his gaze.

Snape was standing behind his desk; his left arm gripping the back of his chair and his right hand gripping his left forearm. His face was twisted in pain, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows that obscured his eyes. He looked demonic, suddenly; possessed.

"Professor, are you all right?" The concern in Ron's voice shocked Pansy.

Snape didn't answer, but his head lifted fractionally before his legs collapsed and he crumpled to the floor. The torch flames sputtered violently in their sconces on the walls, plunging them in darkness save for the wan candlelight from Snape's desk.

Ron was on his feet before Pansy even had time to process what was happening. Then, her brain screamed at her legs, and she ran to Snape's side, her feet scrambling for purchase on the slick stone floor, her eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness.

With a graceful purpose of motion, learned no doubt on the Quidditch pitch, Ron slid on his knees the last few feet to Snape's side and was cradling his greasy head in his lap when Pansy reached them, looking stupidly on.

"What...?" Pansy asked lamely, panic beginning to grip hold.

"Dumbledore," Snape said through clenched teeth. His eyes flickered open, and Pansy swore they were depthless black holes, sucking all the light from the room.

Pansy looked to Ron, whose face was white, but bravely set. "Well, go!" he yelled at her.

Slipping on the wet surface in her stupid boots, she was halfway to the door when the headmaster came through it, his face set in determination similar to Ron's, flanked on either side by his own towering shadows dancing in the flickering candlelight.

Dumbledore was three steps into the room at a brisk pace when his legs went out from under him and he fell on his arse, the suddenness of it turning his mouth from a grim line to a surprised, "Oh!"

In any other context, Pansy would have laughed. As it stood, she was terrified and confused, and the only stimulus she was responding to was panic. She helped Dumbledore up as he flicked out his hand, drying the floor in an instant and relighting the torches. "A little warning would have been in order, I believe," he said with a touch of a grin.

"He's hurt," was all she could come out with in her stricken state. And then she was kneeling at Snape's side, Dumbledore beside her, acknowledging Ron with a brief look.

"Severus," he said firmly, "I need you to stay with me."

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Ron asked, his voice quavering. His eyes locked with Pansy's, and she could tell he was scared, but he was radiating strength, and Pansy couldn't look away.

Snape grimaced and gave a partial nod. Pansy wrapped her cold hands around his left hand, which was balled into a fist. She clasped at him, pressing the flesh of her palms against his hand so hard that she'd have marks where his fingernails cut her.

Dumbledore was prying Snape's hand from his left arm, and Pansy looked down unsuspectingly, barely aware of the scream that departed her lips when Dumbledore was finally able to lift the sleeve.

There, burning a terrible blood red into the ashen skin of Professor Snape's forearm, was the Dark Mark. Pansy had never seen it before except in books, but there was no mistaking it. She leapt to her feet and stumbled backwards into the first row of student tables, retched in her mouth, swallowed, and retched again.

"Ron, I need you to get Professor McGonagall, tell her of the situation, and then take Pansy to my office and wait with her there." Dumbledore's voice was calm and collected, and Pansy couldn't wrap her mind around how he could possibly be taking this so well. One of his professors was dying from the Dark Mark! And all he could do was summon McGonagall!

Ron merely nodded, slid out from under Snape's head, letting it fall to the floor with a very gentle knock, and Pansy was rocked by a fresh wave of sickness, heaving over the side of the table.

Before she fully knew what was happening, Ron had his arm around her and was pulling her from the dungeons. Pansy looked over her shoulder, aware now that she was practically hyperventilating, and saw Snape's feet sticking out from behind his desk and just the edge of Dumbledore's purple robes as he bent down beside him. It was an unholy fear that wracked her body, and she thought wildly for a second that if she left him now she'd never see him again. She clawed at Ron for release, but he held firm, and then they were outside the staff room, Ron pounding on the door and summoning McGonagall, stony-faced and pale. And then she was being dragged up stairs and a winding staircase, and Pansy felt faint, and when Ron pulled her inside Dumbledore's office, she collapsed into him and just sobbed, losing herself in hysterics and not caring.

After several minutes of sobbing into Ron's chest while he rubbed her back in slow circles and shushed whispers that it was all going to be all right, Pansy got control of herself and hit him, hard, right in the ribs.

"How is everything going to be all right? You saw him! That thing is killing him!" she yelled, beating her fists into his chest.

Ron grabbed her wrists. "Don't tell me you didn't know."

"What, and you did?" she demanded and then felt immediately stupid and bitter and angry. "But of course you did! Bosom buddy to Dumbledore's Golden Boy! You know exactly what's going on, don't you!" she yelled spitefully, struggling to free her hands.

Ron shrugged, but did not let go.

"Don't just shrug as if it doesn't matter!" she screamed. "Let me GO!"

Ron opened his hands and raised them in surrender. "Fine. Sorry."

Pansy quickly drew her hands to her face, pressing her palms against her eyes, feeling exhausted and terrified and rather lost. She took several shuddering breaths and said through her hands, "Please tell me what's going on."

"I think maybe Dumbledore should." Ron said sympathetically, reaching out to her.

Pansy dropped her hands from her face and, shrinking from him, fell into one of the cushy armchairs in front of Dumbledore's desk. Ron did the same. After a moment of glaring at him as he carefully plucked a sherbet lemon from a tiny dish on the corner of the desk, Pansy reached across and did the same.

She sucked on it for several minutes, and then said, "That was what I think it was, wasn't it?"

Ron nodded. "Yup."

"And so, he's a...?"

Ron nodded again, still avoiding her eyes.

Pansy felt her heart hit her stomach, do a loop in her chest, and then settle back in its proper place, swollen and pressing all of the air from her lungs. "And he's not in Azkaban because...?"

Ron sighed and finally looked at her. "I don't think I should be the one that tells you, all right? Let's just wait for Dumbledore."

Pansy crossed her arms over her chest and had to remind herself to breathe. "Fine." She was silent for several minutes before anxiety overwhelmed her. "What are they doing down there anyway?"

Ron shrugged, taking the yellow candy out of his mouth and staring at it thoughtfully before tossing it back in.

And so they waited. Her mind was exploding with questions, and her thoughts blurred and swirled around what she had seen in the dungeons. Professor Snape, whom she held in such high esteem, whom they all had looked up to, trusted, obeyed, respected, was a Death Eater. Not that Death Eaters were new in Slytherin, that wasn't the point. But that it had been him. That she had convinced herself that the rumors weren't true. That she had been led to believe a lie. That she had sacrificed, been injured and hurt, for protecting this lie. She had stood up to Draco and to all the others, and she had been wrong. She had held out against it, pointed to Snape as a symbol of strength. She felt wounded, betrayed, deceived. She had been thoroughly duped.

Ron bobbed his knee, humming what sounded suspiciously like the new Weird Sister's song. Even if it wasn't, it was enough of a reminder to get the song stuck in Pansy's head. She had only heard it a few times, and so only the chorus stuck with her, and she sang it over and over in her head until none of it made any sense. The night is long, going gone, and on the other side of darkness tomorrow comes along.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Dumbledore walked into his office, letting the door click softly shut behind him. Immediately, Pansy was on her feet.

"What's going on?" she demanded. "What happened to Professor Snape?"

Dumbledore fell into his chair, set his glasses down on his desk, and rubbed the bridge of his nose for several silent seconds. "I see you've helped yourself to the sherbet lemons, Mr. Weasley."

"She had some, too," Ron said around a mouthful of sherbet powder, pointing at Pansy.

"Very well." He put his glasses back on and reclined slightly in his chair, fixing a look on her. "Miss Parkinson, the events of this evening have left you a little shaken?"

Pansy snorted. Still standing, she crossed her arms over her chest. "That would be an understatement."

"You have no doubt heard certain rumors about our Potions master?" Dumbledore continued in measured tones.

Pansy nodded. She tightened her arms around herself, trying to stop herself from shaking. There were always rumors. There always had been. She had never wanted to believe them.

"As I'm sure you are aware, all rumors are based, at least in part, on a nugget of truth?"

Pansy nodded again. She had called them all liars. They had been sitting around the fire in the common room in their pajamas last term, talking like they always used to talk and Pansy had called them all liars. She had said it made no sense. She had said no one with any sense would turn to the Dark Lord. She had pissed Draco off, and she had pissed off his friends, and she had pissed off just about everyone, and she had stuck by her reasoning. She had said Snape would never do that. She had said Snape was much too clever. She had said failure was imminent. She had said it would take a fool. She had said lots of things. And she had thought that she had meant them all.

"Please sit down," the Headmaster gently urged.

As she did, she glanced over at Ron, who was watching her curiously. Then she was aware that she was crying silently, quite uncalled for, thin hot tears slipping down her cheeks of their own volition and plunking down on her white oxford shirt.

"Although I would prefer that Professor Snape tell you his own story in his own way, I find myself in a position where I most uncomfortably must impart some lesser-known truths regarding his pastimes." Dumbledore stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace.

Ron passed the sherbet lemon dish to her and she plucked one violently off the top.

"As I'm sure you have figured out, Professor Snape is a Death Eater in the service of Lord Voldemort." Dumbledore turned when he reached the bookcase on one wall and headed to the other.

Pansy choked. Ron patted her on the back. She moved out of his reach.

Dumbledore walked the length of his study before he continued. "In addition to this, he is also employed in the service of the Order of the Phoenix. Do you know of it?" the headmaster asked, facing the shelves.

Pansy nodded. Despite what others might say about the Slytherin dungeons, she didn't live in a cave. The Order of the Phoenix had been on the front page of the Daily Prophet for the past twelve months. "So," she said slowly, trying to control her tremulous voice, "he's a double agent?"

Dumbledore cocked his head to the side to survey the title of a dusty volume. "More or less."

"And no one knows about this?" Pansy asked.

"Several people are aware of his position," Dumbledore said slowly, taking the book off the shelf to further examine it. "Mr. Weasley knows, as does the rest of his family, and Mr. Potter and Miss Granger. The entire Order knows, the Minister knows, and I have a feeling a fair amount of the Death Eaters know as well."

"So all these people know, and no one has killed him yet?" Pansy asked, incredulous. Draco had been right. Draco had told her, had said that famous phrase that put an end to any question, sealed the lid of any doubt, in Slytherin House: my father says.

"Spoken like a true Slytherin," Ron muttered, taking another candy from the dish.

"It's a fragile balance," Dumbledore said, conjuring several mugs of steaming cocoa and trying to put the book back on the shelf. Unfortunately, the book had apparently affixed itself to Dumbledore's hand. He shook his arm several times until it came off with a gentle shuck and skidded across his desk, stopping in front of Pansy.

Reading the title (A Wizard's Guide to Feudal Japan), Pansy took one of the mugs, and asked, "So, that... thing in the dungeon... what was that?" She took a sip and it burned the inside of her lip.

"Lord Voldemort uses the Dark Mark as a way of branding his followers, not unlike sheep," Dumbledore said, eyeing the book warily and rubbing his hand on his robes as he sat back down at his desk.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Yes, I know that. But why did he react like that? It can't hurt like that all the time. Draco says--" she stopped. Her chest painfully flared.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, but ignored her last words. "I'm sure Mr. Potter will have an opinion on that in the morning."

Ron narrowed his eyes and slurped his cocoa, making a very disgusting noise.

"What does Potter have to do with it?" Pansy asked, confused. None of this made any sense. Snape was a Death Eater, an Order member, and a spy, which apparently everyone was okay with, and somehow Potter knew what was going on. "He's not exactly the brightest salamander in the fire."

This earned her a particularly nasty glare from Ron.

"Mr. Potter has a special connection with Voldemort," Dumbledore explained patiently, blowing on his cocoa to cool it.

"What? They exchange valentines? Finish each other's sentences?" Pansy said sarcastically.

"All right, look," Ron said, slamming down his mug on Dumbledore's desk. "We're trying to be helpful here, so if you'd please tone down the nastiness, maybe we can get somewhere in the conversation?"

Pansy looked at Ron, truly surprised. She lowered her eyes and took another sip of cocoa.

"Right, so it's like this: Snape's a Death Eater and a very valuable spy for the Order. When the Dark Mark acts like that, it usually means You-Know-Who is up to something. When You-Know-Who is up to something, Harry usually gets a vision or a freaky dream or something. Then we try to figure out what happens next. And Dumbledore does whatever he does to make sure nobody gets killed," Ron said it all very quickly, using his hands to illustrate the logical flow of the matter.

"It's not exactly my favorite hobby, and quite frankly, I'd rather have a game of tenpin bowling. But we don't always get what we want, do we?" Dumbledore said from behind his mug.

After a very uncomfortable moment, Pansy hazarded a question. "Headmaster, sir? What does happen next?"

"I haven't yet decided," Dumbledore said casually.

"Sir?" Ron said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "What if she joined the DA?"

"The DA?" Pansy asked. "What, you mean Dumbledore's Army? I thought that was over fifth year."

Ron blushed a little. "Well, like Ginny says, what Slytherins don't know, they can't use against us. And we call it the Defense Association now."

"The Defense Association," Pansy repeated.

Ron nodded. "Of course, you'd be the only Slytherin when you join."

"Oh, I don't think so," Pansy chuckled cynically.

"Well, I mean just for starts. I think it'd freak a lot of people out if you just showed up with your stompy snake squad, and it's invitation only, anyway, for security purposes," Ron babbled.

Pansy shook her head. "No, I'm not joining. It's a dreadful idea." Pansy's head filled with visions of Hermione bossing around a room full of people all aiming their wands at a target board of Draco Malfoy's visage... then again....

"I, on the other hand, think it's a wonderful idea," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling that annoying twinkle again. Pansy just didn't think it was natural, all that twinkling. It certainly didn't lend him any appearance of sanity. "Mr. Weasley can take you to the meetings and introduce you. I'm sure it will be a wonderful surprise for everyone. What do you think, Miss Parkinson?"

Pansy looked at Ron and Dumbledore, both with that same determined Gryffindor look about them. Dammit! "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Not really," Dumbledore grinned as he rose, herding Pansy and Ron out of his office. At the door, he said nonchalantly, "And not a word of this to anyone, Miss Parkinson," before slamming it in her face.

Tuesday, September 23, 8:38 PM

Tonight, it was Professor Tonks and Neville Longbottom in the storeroom with a barrel of eels. Whatever she had done to upset her karma in such a way as to deserve this, Pansy was unsure. She was quite certain, however, that she would have preferred it if Snape had been there, because he did not like Neville either. Furthermore, she did not like the storeroom, and she certainly did not like eels. Neville was giggly, the storeroom smelled like dead fish, and she had seen a classmate attacked by an eel in primary school and had never fully recovered. Although, these were not regular eels, but Vampiric Naked Chest Biter Eels whose skin slime was used in the antidote to the Hair Raising Potion. She had conveniently discovered just the other day, in fact, that if the amount of eel slime was doubled when making the antidote, one could instead concoct a rather effective Hair Removing Potion, which was good to know, indeed.

"I just don't trust the way they move," she whimpered, plunging her gloved hand quickly into the barrel, trying to catch one without actually having to look at it.

Neville had his arm so far inside the barrel that his shirtfront was touching the top of the water. "Bobbing for eels while Parkinson squeals, such a shame they make for lousy meals," he sing-songed, jumping backwards suddenly, clutching two fat, gray, slimy, squirming eels in his hand. "A-HA!" he hollered triumphantly.

"Everything all right?" Professor Tonks called from the adjoining room.

Pansy could just see the bottom of her boots as she rested her feet on Snape's desk. He'd have killed her for doing that. Snape had not yet returned from wherever he had gone following his collapse, which worried her. Pansy hadn't spoken a word to any of her housemates in two days, giving them all the cold shoulder, and so none of them had asked her opinion on the disappearance of their Head of House. But at least she hadn't had to lie, not that she'd have had any qualms with that. She was hoping she'd get something out of Ron tonight, as they had late rounds from nine until midnight, and she was planning on getting some information out of him one way or another.

"Just dandy, Professor!" Neville yelled over his shoulder, thrusting his entire arm back into the barrel and causing its inhabitants to stir.

Something moved against Pansy's palm and she closed her fist reflexively, pulling up a huge wriggling eel from the black water.

"Nice one!" Neville grinned as Pansy deposited the eel into a shallow aquarium on the floor.

"You're odd, you know that?" Pansy asked bitterly, dipping her arm back into the barrel.

"Yup," Neville said simply, coming up with another eel. He turned it in his hand so that he was looking straight into the dumb face of the snakelike fish. "But you love your Unky Nev, don't you, baby?" he said before tossing it into the aquarium.

Pansy looked sideways at him. "How'd you get so good at this anyway?" He was catching four for every one of Pansy's.

"Lots and lots of practice," Neville said, poking his tongue out as he fished around in the barrel. "This is one of those chores Gran reserves for me. She's scared to death of eels. We've got this huge pond, right? And Gran likes to take the dogs swimming in the pond, except the dogs are scared to death of the eels, too, I guess maybe because they look like snakes, and there's not a dog on the planet that can stand snakes. And so every summer I come home, Gran says, "Neville, you've got to get the eels out!" and I say, "Get them out yourself!" Well, not really, because she's my gran, and she'd probably kill me if I said that to her, but you get the picture." Neville put another eel in the tank, where it bit down on its nearest neighbor.

Pansy caught another eel and let it slide out of her hands into the aquarium. "Just like snakes," she repeated, watching it slither from her grasp.

"Exactly," Neville said, before plunging his other arm into the barrel, coming up holding onto an eel that was twice the size of any other they had caught. "Slippery little bastards."

"How many do we need?" Pansy asked, trying to count the eels in the aquarium, which was damn near impossible, as they kept sliding over one another in the water and moving about, biting. The aquarium was getting full. "I've got to meet Weasley for prefect rounds at nine."

Neville stepped away from the barrel finally and shook the excess water from his gloves. "I think that's more than enough. We were supposed to catch twenty five, I think, and that's got to be at least forty..." Neville trailed off as he removed his heavy dragon-hide gloves and put them on the low workbench. Pansy did the same.

"So, you're joining the DA?" Neville asked in an apprehensive whisper.

"What? Did Weasley tell everyone?" Pansy hissed, running her fingers through her hair and wondering if everyone in Gryffindor tower knew about Snape, too.

Neville made a face. "Well, Luna told me."

"What? Lovegood?" This just kept getting better all the time.

Neville nodded. "It's okay. I mean, it's cool. Whatever. It's kind of neat to have someone joining from the other side."

"The other side?" Pansy repeated wondrously. Better and better.

"You know, from the Dark side."

"Oh, so it's the 'Dark side' now? You make it sound like I'm from a different planet."

"Well, you are sort of, aren't you?"

Pansy could not respond because while her mouth was hanging open waiting for a clever remark to fall out, Ron came through the door of the adjacent classroom and asked Professor Tonks if she could excuse Pansy for prefect duties.

"We've got plenty of eels," Neville said merrily, skipping out of the storeroom, slapping his wet gloves against his trousers as he went.

Ron grinned at Neville, then spied Pansy behind him at the threshold of the storeroom and mustered a more serious gaze. "Ready Parkinson?"

Pansy narrowed her eyes and threw her gloves down on the workbench where she'd get them later. "Ready Weasley," she asserted. She gave him a look that would have reduced any first year and many a Hufflepuff to tears, but Ron only grinned and led her out of the Potions classroom, staying one step ahead.

Wednesday, September 24, 8:46 PM

When Pansy came crashing through the door, she wasn't expecting to find Harry Potter slumped in a chair in the front row of tables, muttering over a large pile of parchment.

"We started without you," Professor Tonks said from behind a copy of Women Who Love Werewolves Too Much and What Their Mothers Did to Deserve It.

"Ahh," was all Pansy said, taking a seat next to Harry. "What are we doing?" she whispered to him. Ron had let her go early from prefect rounds, and she was still a little winded from running down all those stairs.

Harry looked up, glared at Professor Tonks briefly, and whispered back, "We're bloody marking the bloody first year assignments, that's what we're bloody doing." He took a handful of parchments from the stack in front of him and set them down in front of Pansy, sliding a piece with a familiar red scrawl nearer to her.

"This'll be Snape's bloody answer key, then," Pansy said, looking over the scribbled answers on the sheet. She could see maybe why Potter was vexed: Snape had lousy, tiny handwriting.

Harry nodded, going back to the paper in front of him. "I'll never get the bloody ingredients of this bloody potion out of my bloody head again, bloody dammit."

"Mr. Potter, you are in danger of becoming guilty of repetitive swearing, which I consider a most intolerable offense. If you insist upon continuing to blaspheme in my presence, at least be creative about it." Without looking up, Professor Tonks turned a page in her book with a snap.

Harry muttered something indistinguishable and went back to marking his paper.

Pansy smiled. In all honesty, she was expecting something much worse. Although, she still had two days of detention left and had yet to pickle anything, crush anything, decapitate anything, alphabetize anything, or dust anything, so perhaps she ought not count her basilisks before they hatched.

After Pansy had worked her way through the small stack in front of her, she took half of the stack that Harry still had in front of him. She was working about twice as fast as he was. Harry sighed angrily, grinding the point of his quill into the paper he was marking, and then ran both of his ink-stained hands through his hair, making it stand up even more.

"Ye gods!" Professor Tonks exclaimed suddenly, slamming down her book. "How am I supposed to read with you carrying on? This is detention. You're supposed to be quiet!" She stood up, snatching her cardigan off the back of Snape's chair and pulling it on over her robes. "I've got to have a coffee or I'll go insane." She glared at Harry before leaving briskly, presumably heading for the staff room.

Pansy looked curiously at Harry, who was glaring at the door out of which Professor Tonks had just left. "What is it with you? First you try to kill her in the Great Hall, and now this?" Something slid into place in her brain. Ron had said Harry knew things. Dumbledore said he would know about Snape. "Does it have to do with Snape?" she whispered fervently. "Has she something to do with him?"

Harry turned his glare on Pansy. He sure seemed to be glaring a lot lately. "It's none of your bloody business," he said tightly, picking up his quill to sharpen it with a penknife.

Pansy deftly took the penknife from him. "Look, Potter, I don't know what's wrong with you, and I can't say that I care, but as silly as it may seem to you Gryffindor lot, there are plenty of us that happen to care about Snape."

"I don't know anything about him," Harry said, seeming quite miserable about it. "Fat lot of good all these dreams do if I can't even sort them out." He started pulling at the tufts of black hair sticking up along the crown of his head. It looked like he perhaps had been doing that fairly frequently.

"Look," Pansy said, feeling kind of bad for the miserable blighter. "I don't know what's going on. I just know that something..." Pansy swallowed hard but couldn't continue. "Whatever, it doesn't matter. Let's just mark these papers so that we can get the fuck out of here at a decent hour." Then she handed the penknife back.

Harry took it. "Things have just been so weird lately," he said softly, cutting a fresh point on his quill in one fluid motion.

"You mean, weirder than normal?" Pansy asked, keeping one eye on the blade as she returned to the paper before her.

"Yeah." Harry swallowed so thickly that Pansy actually heard it. "Don't you think?"

"How the fuck should I know?" she said without malice.

"Well, you brought it up." Instead of angry, Harry just sounded tired.

"I did not," Pansy said.

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did too. You said--"

"Children!" Professor Tonks admonished, stepping back into the room carrying a very large cup of steaming coffee. "Do I have to separate you two?"

"No," Harry and Pansy said in unison.

"Good. Now get back to work." She sat back down behind Snape's bloody desk, put her bloody feet up, and reclined in his bloody chair, reading her stupid bloody book.

Harry and Pansy glared at Professor Tonks and at each other once more before returning their attention to marking the rest of the parchments in relative peace. In Harry's defense, he did seem to be working faster, and they did manage to get out of there well before midnight.

Out in the hall, Pansy paused for a minute, trying to decide whether she could risk running to the kitchens before going to bed. She had been skipping a lot of meals lately. She had noticed that her chin seemed more pronounced; she always lost weight in her face first, and it was a little troublesome, really. She supposed it was all the stress. She had been on edge almost continually since Monday night.

"So, you're joining the DA?"

The voice startled her, and Pansy turned around so fast that her bag swung out in a very graceful arc--aided by the extra weight of a half dozen books on vanity potions--and caught Harry right in the junk. He immediately crumbled to the floor, holding himself and groaning painfully. "Oh, fuck," Pansy said, trying hard not to laugh. "You okay?"

"Yes," Harry said tightly, curling up into a ball and rolling onto his side.

Pansy didn't know what to do. She was torn between helping him up and skipping down the hall laughing. She dropped her bag to the floor and kneeled beside him. "I didn't mean to--I was just heading for the kitchens, maybe--oh fuck!" she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Do you think you can get up?"

Harry's face was scrunched up in very obvious pain. He sputtered and caught his breath. "Innaminute."

Pansy hid her grin behind her hand. "Right. I suppose I can't just leave you here in the dungeons. Lord knows what's lurking down here this time of night..." Pansy trailed off, looking down the dark hallway.

Harry slowly brought himself up so that he was on his knees, panting slightly, but a bit less red in the face. "What do you have in there, anyway?" he asked, eyeing her bag warily.

"Oh," Pansy said quickly, "nothing. Just some books, you know, Potions and stuff." She made to hurriedly stand up, but Harry caught her wrist.

"Snape will be fine," he said, concern marking every aspect of his features and warming his voice. "Dumbledore will take care of him."

Pansy nodded absently. Ron had said the same thing and she hadn't believed a word of it then, either. "I'm sure he's had worse." She tried to smile, but was sure it probably looked more like a grimace.

Harry gave her a searching look and got to his feet slowly, dusting off his robes as he straightened. "I'm going to be honest with you, Parkinson," he said sounding serious. "There aren't very many people who like the idea of you being in the DA. Several of us think it's a great risk, but Ron is vouching for you, and I trust him completely. But that's not enough for everyone."

"What's your point, Potter?"

"There won't be a second chance for you." He pushed his glasses up his nose, and Pansy was suddenly struck by how susceptible he was, all scrawny, five feet, ten inches of him. "You're either in or out, Parkinson. What's it going to be?"

It took Pansy a moment of staring at him before she realized it was not a rhetorical question. "I don't have a choice, Potter. I'm in because Dumbledore says I'm in."

"There's always a choice," he replied.

Pansy rolled her eyes. She was impatient with all of this Gryffindor good-guy rhetoric. "Whatever, Potter. Good night." She stalked down the dark dungeon hall without giving him a chance to reply, forgetting about the kitchens, grumbling to herself about the injustices of The System and the unfairness of The Man in general which had led her to this: digging in her bag for a package of cockroach clusters, letting the heels of her boots scuff the stone floor as she walked, looking strangely forward to seeing what all this DA hype was about.

Thursday, September 25, 7:57 PM

Professor Tonks, again, sat with her feet up on the corner of Snape's desk. Tonight, when Pansy walked in, it took nearly everything in her power to not lash out and slap her boots off the corner of the large desk. Instead, she threw her bag down with a deafening thud that at least caused Professor Tonks to lower her book (Witches, Culture, and Politics) and level a steely gray gaze at her.

"You will be fermenting the dried fronds of the Maidenhair tree this evening, Parkinson. You and Weasley. Supplies are in the store cupboard. Severus' note explicitly states that you are to use exceptional care not to over simmer the mixture before adding the Insta-Ferm." Professor Tonks held out a sheet of parchment, and Pansy took it reluctantly.

Pansy read the instructions from Snape, not having a clue what any of it meant, and Professor Tonks returned to her book. Pansy pushed up her sleeves and approached the store cupboard somewhat apprehensively, turning over several words in her mind: Maidenhair, Insta-Ferm, Weasley, Maidenhair, Insta-Ferm, Weasley, Maidenhair, Insta-Ferm, Weasley...

She was still standing in front of the open cabinet several minutes later, her mind caught on Weasley, when the youngest of the clan, rain-soaked and covered in mud, squelched her way across the floor of the Potions classroom seemingly in a rather foul mood.

"Parkinson can get you caught up," Professor Tonks said from behind her book.

Ginny grumbled something that Pansy could not make out, and stood next to her, dripping on the very floor that Pansy and Ron had worked so hard to scrub just days before. "So, what's the task?" Ginny said sulkily, wringing out a corner of her robes onto the floor into a filthy little puddle.

Pansy's nose turned up. "I don't suppose you have any good reason for showing up like that?"

Ginny looked down at herself and the puddle quickly forming around her, and then back up at Pansy. "It's a rather long story and it's not at all interesting."

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "We have the time."

Ginny sighed. "Well, Neville has this iguana named Bob, who is much more sociable than his toad, Trevor, was, but he still gets lost all the time. Anyway, Bob was lost and we were trying to find him."

Pansy felt the corner of her mouth lift in an involuntary smirk at the thought of a bunch of Gryffindors chasing a lizard about in the rain. "You're right. Not at all interesting."

"I warned you," Ginny deadpanned, shaking her hair slightly. "So what's this we're doing then?" She waved her hand vaguely at the open cupboard.

Pansy handed the parchment to Ginny. "Apparently, we're supposed to be fermenting dried Maidenhair fronds with Insta-Ferm," she said, her eyebrows contracting as she raked the ingredients of the store cupboard with her eyes once again.

"We're making Maidenhair Tonic?" Ginny asked, plucking several bottles off of the shelves. "That's curious."

Pansy shrugged. Truth be told, she had no idea what Maidenhair Tonic was and furthermore, had no real desire to discover it this evening with the youngest Weasley, or any Weasley for that matter.

Ginny set the ingredients on one of the worktables and grabbed a cauldron from under the sink. "Here, fill this with water," Ginny said, shoving one cauldron at Pansy while she took out another, slightly larger one and returned to the worktable. When the cauldron was full, Pansy carried it carefully back to where Ginny had set up hers, a fire already rolling beneath it as she tipped in a large canister of white powder.

"What's that?" Pansy asked, setting down the heavy cauldron with a groan.

"It's sugar," Ginny said simply, looking at a page in a classroom copy of a Potions text, and then motioned with her chin at Pansy's cauldron. "That needs to be boiling, you know."

"Yes, I know," Pansy snapped, pulling her wand and whispering a quick incantation over her cauldron, bringing the water to a rolling boil.

"Excellent," Ginny said, and with one quick sort of twirling wand movement, drew an arc of boiling water through the air, where it fell hissing into the other cauldron. Ginny stirred it vigorously with her wand. "We need to add the fronds now."

"The who?" Pansy said, looking at the different bottles on the table.

"The green stuff," Ginny said testily. "Just dump the whole bottle in here."

Pansy picked up the green bottle, uncorked it, and upended it over the steaming cauldron Ginny was tending to. "Now what?"

"Now we add more boiling water," she said, stopping the stirring process long enough to perform the charm that transferred more boiling water into the cauldron.

"And?" Pansy said, looking into the cauldron. The liquid was thick amber, the surface breaking with slow, fat bubbles, as the dried green fronds swirled around lazily.

"You have no idea what this is, do you?" Ginny said amazedly.

Pansy looked up at her. "Why, should I?"

Ginny shrugged. "I always thought all the Slytherins were good in Potions."

"We get good marks, but that doesn't mean we actually excel at the subject," Pansy smirked, sitting down in a chair at the next table over. "Common misperception."

"Ah," Ginny said shortly. She continued to stir, and when it became apparent she didn't have a follow-up comment, Pansy broke the silence.

"So, what is it then?"

Ginny continued to stir with her wand as she picked up the text and read. "Maidenhair Tonic is frequently used to treat the victims of devastating magical accidents. It will deaden pain while increasing mind power and reasoning ability."

"Sounds wonderfully contrary," Pansy noted.

Ginny shrugged, her eyes moving quickly across the page. "It's good for lots of things." Casting Pansy a meaningful glance, she continued, "It's said to be the drink of choice of Occlumens the world over."

Pansy recognized that term from the title of a book she had seen in the library, which she had read only long enough to determine that it was improperly shelved in the Transfiguration section. She looked into the cauldron again. "Then why are we making it?"

Ginny glanced over Pansy's shoulder at Professor Tonks before musing, more to herself than to Pansy, "I wonder if it's for Harry."

"Harry Potter?" Pansy exclaimed. Ginny put a finger to her lips. Over her shoulder, Pansy heard Professor Tonks' chair squeak. She continued in a whisper, "What's he need with this?"

"Well..." Ginny started hesitantly.

"Let me guess: long story and not very interesting," Pansy surmised, taking over stirring the cauldron.

"Oh, it's interesting, just not dungeon talk, if you catch my meaning."

"I don't believe I do," Pansy said, her anger flaring slightly. What was it with Gryffindors always assuming the worst about Slytherins? It was really beginning to irk her. "Is it about the DA?"

"She means she'll tell you later," Professor Tonks said from behind her book.

Ginny glared at Pansy.

Pansy glared at Ginny.

"Not that I was listening, of course," Professor Tonks said, a hint of amusement in her voice as she flipped another page in her book.

Pansy coughed and took the Potions text from Ginny. "Right, so after all the sugar is dissolved, we add the fronds, which we've done, and then we simmer it for fifteen minutes--"

"And be sure not to over simmer, ladies," Professor Tonks said from behind her book.

Ginny glared at the professor and then turned her attention back to Pansy. "And then we add cool water and the Insta-Ferm, right?"

"Correct," Pansy said, shutting the book with a snap. "How long have we been simmering then?"

"I haven't a clue," Ginny said coolly.

"Twelve minutes and forty-nine seconds," Professor Tonks offered.

"Thank you, Professor," Pansy said over her shoulder while she checked her watch.

"Just doing my job." Flip.

Ginny and Pansy both rolled their eyes. They finished the tonic in relative ease, although Pansy was aware that Ginny was regarding her with a very watchful eye. After they added the Insta-Ferm and the cold water, the tonic was all but ready, just needing to sit somewhere cool overnight for the fronds to soak. They bewitched the cauldron to be weightless, and then levitated it into the stockroom, capping it with a heavy pewter lid and leaving it beside a barrel of horned toads.

"If you are all finished in there, ladies, I suppose you may be excused. Severus didn't leave any other notes involving this evening's detention." Flip.

The minute they were out the door, Ginny was pulling Pansy along the corridor by the strap of her book bag. "We need to talk," Ginny snarled as she gave a particularly sudden yank and pulled Pansy with a lurch into an unused dungeon.

"What the hell!" Pansy exclaimed as Ginny looked up and down the corridor and slammed the door.

"Colloportus!" Ginny said, locking the door, and then turning aggressively to face Pansy.

"What are you doing?" Pansy asked nervously, stepping back from Ginny, who only advanced on her again.

"If you're going to be in the DA, there are a few things you ought to know," Ginny said, her voice crisp and threatening. "First rule of the DA," Ginny counted, poking Pansy in the sternum with her wand, "is that we never talk about the DA."

"Wha--?" Pansy asked, retreating into the room.

"Second!" Ginny poked Pansy in the sternum again. "What happens in the DA stays in the DA."

Pansy took another step back.

"Third rule of DA," Ginny said, advancing and poking Pansy in the sternum again, "is simple. Never." Poke. "Talk." Poke. "About." Poke. "The DA." Poke.

Pansy backed up yet again and felt with slight panic that she was all the way against the wall. She looked warily at Ginny's drawn wand and then at her face, which was just a little bit scary.

Ginny's eyes narrowed and she hissed, "Think you can manage that?"

Pansy nodded mutely, feeling the stone cutting into her shoulders as she leaned back further. She supposed now would not be a good time to point out the DA had, in fact, been a frequent topic of conversation among Harry himself, Neville, and apparently Luna Lovegood.

"Good," Ginny said, dropping her wand and smiling. "I was going to go to the kitchens. Care to join me?"

Though her body was wracked with stabbing hunger pains, she was quite sure Ginny was unbalanced. Pansy shook her head.

"Sure?" Ginny asked nicely, cocking her head to one side. "You haven't been eating lately. Ron says you've missed a lot of meals. Plus, your face is practically skeletal and you look awfully peaky."

"I, er," Pansy stuttered. "Ron said what now?"

Ginny smiled, taking hold of Pansy's bag strap again and tugging on it lightly. "I won't hurt you. And besides, there are these cherry chocolate cakes they save for guests, but usually we can get some. And its prefect shift change, not like anyone would touch us anyway."

Pansy perked up at the mention of cherry and chocolate in the same sentence and ceded to Ginny's insistent tugging, letting herself be dragged along by the slightly taller girl until they were at the door to the kitchens. Once they reached the portrait of fruit, Ginny reached her hand up to the pear, but paused. "And that thing I said about the DA?" Ginny said over her shoulder. "I meant that."

The corner of Pansy's lip curled slightly. "I had a feeling," she replied coolly.

"And this doesn't mean we're friends, either," Ginny clarified.

Pansy nodded. "Of course not. I hate your guts."

"Feeling's mutual," Ginny said, smiling. Then she tickled the pear, and the portrait opened to reveal the kitchens.

Pansy followed Ginny inside, and suddenly the room, which was usually in quite a din, was silent. Five heads snapped up from the Gryffindor preparation table: sandy brown, black, brown, black, and red as the five seventh year Gryffindor boys stopped, seemingly mid-discussion, to gawk at Pansy with both alarm and confusion.

"Er," Ron and Pansy said.

The house-elves paused, mid-bustle, looked curiously to Harry, who nodded, and then continued on with their chores.

"Oh," Ginny said casually, sitting down between Neville and Harry and pulling a large chocolate torte toward her. "I brought Parkinson." A little house-elf brought her a cup of cocoa on a tiny tray.

"Hey," Dean said, returning to his sketch pad and scooting over on the bench to give Pansy room to sit. "How was detention?"

"Not bad," Ginny said around a mouthful of cake. "We were making Maidenhair Tonic."

"Maidenhair Tonic?" Dean repeated, looking at Pansy. "What for?"

Pansy shrugged and sat down next to Dean, directly across from Ron. Another house-elf hurried over and set down a steaming mug in front of Pansy. She nodded her appreciation, reaching forward and pulled the cake that Ron was hoarding toward her. Taking a fork from a pile on the table, Pansy stabbed into the cake, bringing a large, moist bite to her lips. It was delicious, with cherry bits throughout and a thick layer of rich and buttery chocolate icing.

"What's Maidenhair Tonic?" Ron asked curiously, glaring at Pansy, She Who Eats His Cake. His ears were tinged pink.

Pansy smirked, licking the chocolate icing off her lips, which only seemed to cause Ron to redden further.

"Harry? Care to tell us?" Ginny said between bites.

Ron stabbed into the cake, taking a bigger bite than Pansy had and stuffing it into his mouth, raising an eyebrow challengingly.

Harry looked up from the homework he was doodling on. "How should I know?"

"It's for you, isn't it?" Ginny questioned.

Pansy cut into the cake, taking a huge piece of it onto her fork, balancing precariously as she lifted it to her mouth. She opened her mouth wide and was able to fit the entire piece in, with just enough room to chew with her lips together. Ron watched with interest.

"No," Harry replied.

"Well, it's for Occlumens, isn't it?" Ginny countered.

"So." Harry shrugged and returned to his parchment.

Pansy swallowed her mouthful of cake with difficulty, and then smiled at Ron, lifting her eyebrow tauntingly.

"So is Snape," Neville countered, pointing at Ginny with his fork. "You always jump to conclusions, you do."

Ron examined the cake, as if strategizing his next move, carefully inspecting what was left of it, now that it had huge sections out from either side. He gave the cake plate a quarter turn so that he and Pansy were now looking at virgin territory, so to speak.

"I do not," Ginny started. "Just because I happen to be concerned about Harry--"

Ron scraped off a huge chunk of icing from the bottom edge with his finger and raised it to his lips, flicking his tongue out and tasting it. Pansy felt her tongue wet her own lips. She dipped her finger into the icing and did the same, putting her entire finger into her mouth, closing her lips around it, and pulling it out slowly, swirling her tongue to suck off all the sweet chocolate goodness as she did so. The chocolate was absolutely divine, coating her mouth and giving her a wonderfully light feeling as sugar euphoria began to set in. Her eyelids lowered and her shoulders sagged.

"Speaking of Snape," Seamus spoke above Ginny, "he's back."

Pansy's eyes snapped immediately open. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. "He's all right, isn't he?" she asked thickly.

Seamus gave Pansy a particularly odd look, as if inquiring after the health of the Potions master was the most absurd thing he'd ever heard of. "I suppose. Colin heard Pomfrey telling Dumbledore in passing that, 'Severus is not to be disturbed while he rests unless the situation absolutely warrants it.' So he's here somewhere."

Pansy stood up abruptly. "He's in the hospital wing?" She had to see him. She had to know if he was okay.

All of the Gryffindors exchanged confused looks. "I don't know," Seamus said at last.

Pansy looked wildly around at all of them, who were looking at her with particular interest, except for Ron, who was busy wiping his finger off with his napkin, and Harry, who was watching Ron curiously. "I've got to go," she said tersely, pulling her heavy book bag onto her shoulder.

"Wait!" Ron called after her, but she was already out the door.

Friday, September 26, 10:47 PM

Pansy injected the last horned toad with formalin and placed it on the tray with the others. She hazarded a look at Professor Snape, who sat at his desk, poring over a long roll of parchment. She cleared her throat quietly.

"Yes, Miss Parkinson?" Snape said disinterestedly.

"I'm ready for the pickling solution, sir," Pansy replied. She had been sneaking glances at him while she worked. He certainly did look better now than he had last night, when she had flown through the doors of the hospital wing and found him sitting on the edge of a bed, lacing up his boots.

"Yes, Miss Parkinson?" he had inquired, face tight and a pale blue-green in the moonlight coming through the hospital wing windows.

"Are you all right?" she had gasped out between panting, halting breaths as she rushed to him.

"Of course," he had said with scorn, pulling himself up to his full height, eyes hooded and black, and then Pomfrey had come in and dragged her out. And all the while, Pansy had only thought to think, Thank God.

Last night, she needed reassurance. Tonight, she needed answers.

Snape rounded the corner of his desk, heading for the storeroom, where all such materials were kept. She followed him into the dark space, which seemed more cramped with he and she in it than it had even before with her and Neville and the eels.

"Sir," Pansy began, false steel in her voice, "about Monday night..." Her courage quickly faltered as he turned, eyebrows arched and lip curled. Oh, fuck. He's giving me the Potter Look.

"What happened Monday night is none of your concern," Snape hissed malevolently, turning back to the shelves lining the far wall.

"Sir," Pansy tried again, a little desperate this time, "I need--"

Snape turned so fast, the hems of his robes actually snapped. He advanced on her slowly, enunciating each syllable carefully and cleanly, his pace dauntingly deliberate. "Your needs, Miss Parkinson, are my concern as far as they interest your schoolwork and your living conditions. I do not feign to be at any degree mindful of your personal matters." For the duration of this speech, Pansy had been scuttling away from him so that now she found herself standing with her thighs against one of the classroom tables. "Now sit down."

Pansy sat.

Snape bent over her, hands braced on either side of the table; his thin fingers wrapped around the edges. Pansy watched with wide eyes as he leaned forward, his greasy black curtain of hair shadowing his face, his eyes two pinpricks of glowing fury in the torchlight.

"You would do best to forget the events of Monday night." His voice stabbed daggers of ice into Pansy's flesh. She winced as they cut deeply.

"Sir--" she squeaked, feeling her eyes brim with unwanted tears. She fought to blink them back.

Snape pushed away from her and returned to his high-backed black leather desk chair. He pointed with his quill at the door out of which they had just come. "You will find the rest of the pickling solution in the storeroom, Miss Parkinson."

Pansy took two deep breaths, stood, sat down quickly, stood again, and went to the storeroom. She let a few tears spill there, hidden in the darkness. She blotted them with the edge of her sleeve, found the pickling solution, and returned to the classroom. She immersed the horned toads--399 of them-- three in each of the small jars Snape had set out for her that evening. She took her time, was careful not to spill any of the pickling solution, and never once looked up to notice Snape: even after midnight, even after the candles flickered out, even after he had rolled up his scrolls, even as he watched her finish off the last several jars, even as he held the door open for her as she left.

"Miss Parkinson," he acknowledged in a low voice, excusing her.

"Sir." She kept her gaze locked on the stone floor as she walked steadily down the hall.

The moment she rounded the corner to the common room, she slumped down against the wall, the stone cutting into the gentle curve of her back as she pulled her knees to her chest, buried her head in her arms, and cried. Her sobs became hollow echoes in the empty corridor, soon melting into the darkness around her as if they never existed at all.