Pariah

Pariah, Chapter Six

Of a Monday Night

Vice is a dreary business. And virtue is not a lot of fun, either.

- Mason Cooley

October, unlike August, was a slow and tedious month. It was the month the seventh years began to get real homework; the month the entire castle was wound up tightly in preparation of the beginning of the Quidditch season (there were bets as to which captain would need a Calming Draught first--Pansy had her money on Michael Corner); and the month that Pansy spent ninety-five percent of her time avoiding her housemates. It was also the month Pansy realized that this thing between her and Ron Weasley was very likely the beginning of an actual Thing, but she couldn't bother thinking about casual bumping of shoulders on staircases, subtle brushings-up-against in hallways, or the occasional meeting of hands on doorknobs or tabletops. She was in the library, thinking about someone else entirely and trying very hard not to think about Ron Weasley at all, thanksverymuch.

And, besides, it was an occasion worth noting, indeed, that found Blaise Zabini in the library, let alone in the library staking out Pansy Parkinson. Perhaps it was the sheer profundity of the gesture that made Pansy finally slam her book shut with a quick snap and address the shadow that was lurking just on the other side of the Charms case. Or perhaps she was just very, very annoyed. (And not thinking about Ron Weasley at all.)

"For fuck's sake, Zabini! What is it?"

The shadow moved slowly to the end of the case, and Blaise, looking around somewhat cautiously, stepped out into the aisle. He fixed Pansy with a very deliberate glare and leaned, rather elegantly and no doubt meaning to be that way, against the end of the row of shelves, seeming to rest his full weight on his shoulder. Simultaneously crossing his legs at his ankles and folding his arms, he continued to unflinchingly gaze at Pansy.

"Well?" she whispered, irritated and not caring to hide it. Blaise, she was inclined to believe, was indeed a man of few words. He had been reputed as such in Pansy's presence on several occasions, and while her own experience with him was somewhat limited, Millicent had described him once as "observant". Morag, on the other hand, had accredited Blaise with reminding her of a cat laying in wait to pounce. And then again, Daphne had sufficiently romanticized him as "brooding; the strong and silent type". Not that Pansy gave a damn about them, anymore, and regardless of what had been said about Blaise by them, even back when she had cared what they thought, she had never put much stock in him. His watchful air, and the manner in which, when a person caught him clearly staring, he didn't look away and didn't seem appropriately embarrassed, had given Pansy the impression that Blaise was not only perhaps a bit pervy, but also needing to brush up on his social etiquette. She held his glare now, however. He even had creepy eyes: they were, upon inspection, the bluest eyes Pansy had ever seen, the color of the sky on very clear days, and they seemed to be sucking her in. So this is what Daphne sees in him, she thought. Huh. Still not thinking about Weasley. Nope. Not one iota.

"I'm giving you full marks on devastating social impact, but regretfully must dock points for your failed attempts at originality." His voice was very soft and alarmingly deep, and while Pansy pondered when the hell that change had taken place, he delivered a long glance over his shoulder.

"Pardon?" Pansy leaned to try to see what Blaise was looking at.

"What was it last week?" Blaise said, turning back around with a very slight grin. "Woad in the prefect's bath? And the week before, weren't roast chickens charmed to follow Teeny Nott around the castle begging to be eaten, twittering about on their stumpy roasted legs?" Blaise's lip twitched a bit as he continued. "And the week before that, if memory serves, Teeny had the worst breath Zonko's could offer." His mouth quirked at the corner momentarily, and then his face settled back into its normal blank expression.

"All very unlucky events," Pansy whispered, and then paused while a Hufflepuff girl passed. Truth be told, the Stink Breath hadn't been her, nor had it been a Zonko's product. As far as she knew, it hadn't even hit the market yet, which made it doubly untraceable for the time being. "Don't forget that the week prior to the aforementioned Stink Breath incident was the oh-so-unfortunate shampoo-of-doom debacle."

"Ah, yes," Blaise nodded. "Let's not forget the day half the Slytherins went bald from using Teeny's shampoo."

It took every ounce of willpower Pansy possessed to fix her lips in a grim unmoving line at the memory of the screams that came from the dormitories that morning. "In all honesty," Pansy said tightly, "I'm quite convinced that it is all the work of some Gryffindor with a particularly cruel and tortured childhood." Okay. So that time I thought of him. Glad that's over with.

Blaise nodded again, pushing himself away from the Charms case and taking several long strides toward her. "In all honesty," he said in a very low voice, reaching out and resting his hands on the back of the vacant chair across the table from Pansy, "I'm quite convinced that your grudge match is doing you more harm than good."

Pansy feigned a sputter and rested her hand above her heart. "I assure you, I know naught of what you speak," she demurred.

And then Blaise leaned forward and said quietly, "Do you know what the Zabini family motto is?"

Pansy blinked up at him as he towered above her. "Dear God, you people have a motto?"

"Of course we have a motto," Blaise scoffed, and then returned to his eerily low voice. "Never discuss politics at dinner until the threat of poisoning is well passed."

Pansy made a face. "That's a bit grotesque, actually."

"Well, it sounds much more ominous in Italian, let me tell you," Blaise said, pulling out the chair and sitting down.

Relieved that the awkward moment of hovering was over, Pansy shifted back in her chair. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting down," Blaise said, casually hooking one arm around the back of his chair and glancing over his shoulder again.

"What are you doing now, then?" Pansy asked. She was tiring of this game and was beginning to think maybe there was a reason Blaise usually didn't speak. He was bloody obnoxious. Great, she thought, now I'm even beginning to sound like him.

"Do you suppose you could switch me seats? Only I don't like sitting with my back to the door," Blaise asked. "That's how they got my godfather, you know."

As soon as it struck Pansy that he was, in fact, serious, she recognized that explosion in her head as being The Last Straw. "Fucking fire crabs, Zabini! You don't talk to me hardly at all for six years, and then you barge in suddenly and start telling me your family history?"

Blaise calmly surveyed her with that creepy perv look again: the one that lacked all social grace and disarmed Pansy more than she was willing to admit. "Do us all a favor, Parkinson, and don't make this a Thing." He flicked his wrist casually in the air between them.

Raising her eyebrows, Pansy deadpanned, "You've got me Zabini. I give up. Now try to make sense, please. This crazy-talk is unbecoming."

Blaise smirked in such a way that it would have reminded Pansy strongly of Draco had she not banished him from her thoughts for the rest of eternity. (This Weasley Thing had its advantages in that respect, at least.) Then he leaned forward so far in his seat that the back legs of his chair rose from the floor. "Funny how this mysterious culprit always strikes on a Tuesday, isn't it? Causes one to wonder what is happening of a Monday night."

Something inside of Pansy clenched. Oh big fuck. It was her stomach, as if warning her, if he knows, you are never going to eat bangers and mash again. Because you will DIE. "Yes. Funny, that."

Blaise moved his right hand across the stretch of table separating them, reopening the book to where her finger had marked the page. "I know where you go on Monday nights, with Weasley," he whispered, barely audible.

"Crazy talk," Pansy said in a very faint whisper. Her veins were humming, gripped by slight panic and maybe something else. He knows, he knows, he knows.

"We can forget about this whole thing on one condition," he said, making a show of turning the book around so that he could look at the page on Flatulence Charms she had marked. His eyebrows rose fractionally as he surveyed the passages Pansy had been reading before his interruption.

"What's that?" Pansy said guardedly.

"See, here's the deal," he said slowly, still barely audible. He turned the book back around and slid it over to Pansy, the tattered leather cover making a noise like dull knives scraping dry bones as it moved across the worn oak. "While I don't necessarily agree with the politics of our Head Boy on all matters, the more of a mess you make, the more of a mess we will all be exposed to. And I, for one, do not care for messes."

"You lost me," Pansy said, closing the book and stuffing it into her bag without taking her eyes off Blaise. He didn't know. There was no way he could know. She had covered her tracks, destroyed the evidence, killed the witnesses... well, she thought, I certainly would have, if there had been any.

"Parkinson," Blaise entreated. "Pansy. Please. Think about it. You're giving them ammunition. You are handing them weapons."

"?" Pansy said. She decided she wouldn't give Blaise an inch. He was bluffing. There was no way he could know.

Blaise growled, glancing over his shoulder as he ran a hand roughly through his dark, dark hair. "They feed off anger and hurt and weakness of any kind."

"No, actually, Draco is rather fond of trifle, if you haven't noticed." Pansy folded her hands in front of her and cocked her head to one side to look at Blaise, using her words as a foil. "Zabini, are you on drugs?"

With another growl, this one more guttural, Blaise hastily stood, reaching out behind him to catch the chair as it fell. "Fine. Fine," he hissed, shoving the chair roughly back under the table. "Be a fool. But don't say I didn't warn you. I know the Notts; I've seen how they work. I've seen a lot of things, Parkinson. This little feud of yours will be the death of you and the death of Slytherin House as we know it," he spat, eyes dancing.

"Well, we all have to go sometime, don't we?" Pansy said lightly, giving her housemate a sweet innocent smile.

Blaise snickered ominously, then stepped quickly around the table so that he was standing behind her. She felt him lean against the back of her chair, and she was rocked slightly forward as he bent over her. "Some sooner than others, Parkinson," he said, his hot breath hitting the edge of her collar.

Pansy closed her eyes. This close she could smell him, and with her eyes closed she thought he smelt of dungeons and darkness, rough stone and sardonic repents. When she didn't respond, she felt him pull away, leaving a vacuum in the space he had occupied. She sagged into the back of her chair, and when she opened her eyes again, Blaise was long gone and that same Hufflepuff girl was peaking out from behind one of the cases in the Transfiguration section, staring at her.

"What?" she snapped peevishly, and the Hufflepuff girl actually jumped. It made Pansy feel a little better, at least, and she hurriedly snatched up her bag to leave. It was Monday night, after all, and she had places to be, begrudgingly though she went.

* * * * *

Ron really couldn't help it: he was proud of himself. When he had brought Pansy to her first DA meeting, he wasn't sure if things were going to work out at all. Now, as he watched her disarm several others who were standing on the edge of the Gauntlet, he was nearly bursting. She hadn't been that good, at first, but she had been a quick learner, surprisingly. Of course, that she was good enough at Defense to hold her own in the Gauntlet was only the first step in acclimating her into the DA, as Hermione had taken the time to remind him on several separate and equally painful occasions.

"The entire purpose of the DA is to be prepared in case something happens, to be confident and capable of thinking clearly. Who can be confident with someone they can't trust?" Hermione had said to them in Gryffindor Tower, and he and Harry had had to agree. As annoying as her gift for logic could often be, Hermione had a bloody point this time.

No one trusted Pansy. Nor did they like her much. That first night, the heads of all the DA members had snapped to Harry the moment Ron had led her into the Room of Requirement, and, as if the looks of shocked horror and mute disgust on their faces hadn't been enough, Ron could positively hear their thoughts questioning Harry. "Why is she here, Potter? A Slytherin, Potter? You have to be joking, Potter. Over my dead and rotting corpse, Potter." Okay, so the last one had been Zacharias Smith, and he had actually said it aloud, and Pansy had yet to pass him without snarling.

Several people had made an obvious effort to move away from her that first night, and the only person, other than Ron and Harry, who had actually spoken to her had been Hermione, who had diplomatically nodded and muttered something about the actualization of inter-House unity or some such other tripe, and then, under her breath, had mumbled something about "Dumbledore" and "crack".

The whole thing had been rather embarrassing, and Ron had partnered Pansy and let her disarm him several times in hopes of just boosting her morale, until she had snapped at him for being a hypocrite and a fraudster and told him that if he didn't start taking her seriously, she was going to tell everyone he had given Snape mouth-to-mouth in the dungeons.

And he hadn't been inclined to show her much mercy since.

The second week, things had been better. Pansy had partnered Ginny and Ron had partnered Seamus, and Ron knew it had been Ginny's idea, probably to both get away from Seamus and to get Ron and Pansy away from each other. Lately, they seemed to be spending a lot of time together, actually, or maybe it was just because with everything else that was happening, the time he did spend with Pansy, alone, patrolling the quiet corridors companionably, just seemed like more time. Yes, that was probably it: three hour vortexes of time with Pansy three times a week (four every third).

Ginny, of course, could hex circles around Pansy, but by the end of the evening, Pansy was getting a little better. At least she had stopped growling at Harry every time he walked by, which was a definite improvement.

And by the end of the third DA meeting, Pansy had actually smiled, having completed the Stunning Gauntlet without stepping on Bob, knocking over the grindylow tank, or being hit by a single flying cauldron. She had excellent reflexes when honed a bit, even in those stupid shoes.

Harry had smiled as well, and shouted, "Well done!" because it truly was well done, and anybody could have seen that it was truly well done if they had actually been watching, which of course they had, because when Pansy was around, no one wanted to be caught off guard. So, it wasn't just Ron watching; of that, he was sure. He might have been the only one who clapped, but he surely wasn't the only one who had seen.

Pansy hadn't said anything, whether embarrassed or not bothering to respond, Ron could never really tell with her.

Next it had been Ginny's turn, and she had stepped up to the Gauntlet, taken a deep breath, and ran in. She was out in record time, of course, because it was Ginny, and she was ace at these things. When she stepped out the other side, she checked her time and grinned broadly.

"Extraordinary," Pansy had said, the word laden with sarcasm.

Panting slightly, Ginny had glared down at the older Slytherin. "What? Think you can do better, Parkinson?"

Pansy had shrugged. "Sure."

Ginny had smirked. "Next time, whoever gets out the fastest, wins."

"Wins what?" Pansy had sniffed, idly polishing her wand with the folds of her robes.

Ginny had shrugged. "Honor. Respect."

"Not good enough," Pansy had said stiffly, shaking her head as she pocketed her wand. "How about," she said thoughtfully, "whoever wins next week gets to put forth a challenge or dare to the other?"

Ron, Harry, and Hermione had shared a gloomy look.

Ginny had considered it for a moment, and then beamed, stretching out her hand. "Deal."

Pansy had smirked. "Fine, Weasley. Let's see what you're made of, shall we?" She shook Ginny's hand.

And now, as Pansy made her final dash out of the Gauntlet, everyone's eyes on the clock Hermione had charmed to record their times, Ron found himself torn between wanting Pansy to win and rooting for his sister. By all means, Ginny ought to win: she was faster, more experienced, and just better at this than Pansy was. However, in Pansy's defense, that had been a particularly brilliant performance. She had disarmed ten of twelve DA members who stood on the sidelines sending Stunners her way, cleanly spun out of the reach of the cloaked mass Hermione had charmed to fly into her, and masterfully dodged the Tripping Jinx Harry had fired at her. And she had done it all in those ridiculously clunky boots.

Cheeks flushed and trying to catch her breath, Pansy looked up at the clock, smiling, having beaten this Gauntlet two-tenths of a second faster than Ginny had done last week, and that had been a considerably easier task. Expectantly, everyone turned to Ginny, who had stepped onto the platform at the entrance of the Gauntlet. The next set of DA members flanked the platform to cast their Stunners, Hermione re-arranged the Flying Hoodman (as the thing had been dubbed), and Harry sought out his vantage point.

Ginny tipped her head to either side, cracking her neck, and then picked up each foot and, lifting it up behind her, stretched her muscles. Then she straightened up, gripped her wand firmly, and gave a short nod to Ron.

Closing his lips around the mouth of the whistle, Ron didn't know if he could find the breath to blow. The room was positively sparkling with tension: Ron knew he wasn't the only one at least somewhat afraid of the consequences if Ginny lost. Who knew what Pansy had in mind? He only hoped it wasn't anything too terrible.

Ron took a breath through his nose and exhaled through the whistle. The blast split the air, and Ginny was off.

She took out ten of twelve; just the same as Pansy. She circumnavigated the Flying Hoodman with a simple duck-and-roll, and was nearly out of the Gauntlet, slightly ahead of Pansy's time, when she fell, quite suddenly and with an anguished yell, flat onto her face.

In the echo of Ginny's fall, the entire room was still with shock and horror.

Harry, with his hand over his mouth and his eyes wide, looked ready to be sick. He let his wand slip from his grasp with a muffled, "shit". Ron thought that pretty much summed it up, only he might have put it more like this: "Goddamn, it Harry! What're you trying to do? Kill my little sister? The force of that fall could have sent her nose into her brain! Mum's always warned us this would happen if we messed around! Just look at her!" Ron's brain finally switched from horror to fear, and he began pushing people out of the way, making a path to his sister's side.

"It was... she was supposed to..." Harry stuttered as Ron walked away, "I didn't mean to...."

Groaning, Ginny slowly pulled herself up on her hands and knees, and, with a shaking hand, wiped away a small trickle of blood running down her chin. She limped the last five feet to the finish line, where she promptly collapsed into her brother's arms. A small group quickly closed in around them, among them was Hermione, of course, adamantly telling everyone to back up.

"She needs air!" she said, just as Ron reached out to push her away.

"You all right?" Ron asked, helping Ginny to sit upright. Her face was bloody and swelling already, her elbow was scraped, and she spat a mouthful of blood onto the wooden platform.

"Yeah," Ginny said thickly, wincing. It looked to Ron as if she had hit chin-first. Her lip was twice its normal size and her mouth looked outlined in blood. A large, rosy bruise was blooming high on her cheekbone.

"Okay. Come on, then," Ron said, lacing his arm under her arm, around her back, and to her waist on the other side. Heaving a bit, he pulled her to her feet where she wobbled, casting her weight into him.

"I fell pretty hard," she said in her most normal voice.

"I know," Ron said simply. "I saw."

Slowly, he helped her off of the platform, where, upon reaching the edge of the group, she collapsed onto one of the many sofas lining the walls.

"That was pretty impressive, Weasley," Pansy said, suddenly at Ron's elbow, and for a very short second, he thought she was addressing him. But then he followed her faintly amused gaze to Ginny, who, with bloody mouth and bruised cheek, looked a fright with that scowl on her face.

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed the show," Ginny bit back with what was obviously all of the bad humor she could muster--which at this point was quite a lot.

"Immensely," Pansy returned.

"Well, congratu-fucking-lations," Ginny said.

"I think the credit is all due to Potter, tell you the truth."

"I hate you," Ginny spat.

"Likewise."

"I more than hate you. I loathe you."

"Wonderful," Pansy said, hopelessly blasé.

"Beyond loathing, lies abomination, and I'm this close." Ginny held up her thumb and forefinger, mere millimeters apart.

"Can't wait. Doesn't excuse you from making good on the terms of our arrangement, though," Pansy said almost triumphantly.

Ron was suddenly aware that the entire DA was now tuned into the conversation, no doubt looking back and forth between Pansy and Ginny as they volleyed insults, just as Ron himself was doing

Ginny growled, and Pansy flopped down beside her on the sofa. "And as my reward," she said, breaking into a malicious grin, "you have to snog Draco Malfoy."

Laughing bitterly, Ginny said, "You're joking!"

"Nope," Pansy said shortly.

Ron wasn't sure, but he thought perhaps he vomited a bit in his mouth just then.

"You have to be joking. That is just...."

"Insane. Crazy. Gross. Completely uncalled-for," the audience chimed in.

"Positively the cruelest, most unusual punishment known to mankind," Zacharias declared from right behind Ron with sheer repulsion in his voice. "I mean, have you seen him in his Quidditch robes? It'd be like snogging a bag of antlers, all those bony bits."

Ron cast a curious look over his shoulder at Zacharias, who then turned a very faint red.

"Well!" Zacharias exclaimed defensively. "You can't possibly stand to let your sister, let alone any decent human being, be exposed to that. Think of the hipbones! They'd cut her to ribbons!"

"Yeah," Ginny agreed, her eyes gone wide with shock. She turned to Ron pleadingly. "You can't let her do it."

"Parkinson...." Ron began, but then a hand closed on his shoulder.

"It's my fault," Harry said, sounding dejected and thoroughly grief-stricken. "I mean, it's my fault she lost. I'll do it."

"Guuuuh!" Ron said, completely beyond words.

"Way to take one for the team, Potter," Zacharias said with more than a touch of wonder.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "My, my, Potter. Note I did say "snog" and not "shag". Although, far be it for me to decide how extensive your sense of guilt for Miss Weasley's demise could be."

"There will be no snogging of Draco Malfoy by any member of this organization!" Hermione exclaimed. "Quit being ridiculous, Parkinson. Pick again."

Ron and Ginny exchanged relieved looks. Harry let out a low breath and relaxed his grip on Ron's shoulder. Zacharias made a noise that bordered on a disappointed groan.

Pansy, however, only narrowed her eyes into mean little slits. "It's my dare! I can choose what I want!"

"Within reason." Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and gave Pansy her I'm-not-budging-on-this-so-you-might-as-well-just-give-in-now-and-save-yourself-some-trouble look. Ron realized, upon reflection, he'd actually seen an awe-inspiring amount of those looks.

"There was nothing in the bargain about it needing to be reasonable," Pansy protested.

Hermione didn't budge. She shook her head slowly and said, "Not going to happen, Parkinson."

"Oh, come on!" Pansy cried. "It's not that unreasonable. I'm sure loads of people would jump at the chance to snog Draco!"

Ron vaguely wondered if she had any sense of how unconvincing that argument was with her current audience.

"Not me. Not ever. No thank you," Ginny said, shuddering.

Pouting, Pansy leaned back in the sofa. "Fine. But this is going to take some re-thinking."

"Oh, take as long as you'd like," Ginny said.

Several people laughed then, diffusing the tension, and Harry glanced down at his watch. "Time to head back!" he said loudly, meaning, of course, that it was closing in on prefect shift-change time and curfew for everyone else besides. "Good meeting, everyone!" he called to the room at large.

Pansy got up with a huff, pulled her heavy bag onto her shoulder, and stalked out of the room, negotiating the crowd so that she was one of the first to leave. Ron watched her dark head disappear out the door just in front of Hannah Abbott's bouncing blonde ponytail, and then turned his attention back to Ginny, Hermione, and Harry, who were all crowded on the sofa now, Terry Boot perched on the arm next to Hermione. Harry scooted over, jamming his bony hips into Hermione and making just enough room for Ron to squeeze in between his best mate and his only sister.

"Well, that was certainly interesting," Ginny said, after the room had cleared out but for them.

"Who in their right mind would want to snog Draco Malfoy?" Terry said with a tone of immense distaste.

"He's so... pointy," Ginny said thoughtfully. "Not to mention foul and evil and more than likely smelling like fish and numerous other things synonymous with not-snoggable."

"That Parkinson is just so coarse," Hermione said.

"I wonder what that was all about, anyway," Harry said, idly pulling at a loose stitch in the cuff of the Weasley jumper he was wearing.

"Dunno," Ron said, watching a few more stitches pop out under Harry's ministrations.

"Do you suppose Pomfrey would fix me up this time, just out of pity?" Ginny wondered aloud, touching her fingers to her cheek.

"Doubtful," Harry and Ron said in unison. It had been some time since Pomfrey had consented to fix any minor injuries incurring from DA sessions. She always shooed them away with the same dismissive, "Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger," yet had assured them that if anyone should crack their head open, she was only a blood-curdling scream away.

Ginny shuddered violently. "I just feel, I dunno, dirty."

Harry snickered. "Who ever would have thought Pansy Parkinson would be the DA's next femme fatale?"

"I can't imagine referring to Parkinson as femme," Ginny said immediately, "let alone a fellow DA member."

"I can't imagine you ever having the opportunity to use femme fatale in conversation" Terry followed quickly.

"I can't imagine growing up in Slytherin House without learning a thing or two about defense, even if it would have been basically just choosing the opportune moment to run away," Ron said darkly and with a fair amount of sarcasm. "And I think Harry learned that word from Remus."

Ginny snorted, Harry chuckled bitterly, and even Terry chortled a bit. Hermione, however, merely said, "It really isn't funny. You give her an inch, and she'll take a mile."

"Thanks for that, Hermione. Perceptive and optimistic as ever," Ron said.

"I have a very bad feeling about this. There's something off about her," Hermione said skeptically.

Ginny looked at Hermione quizzically, and Harry said, "This from the girl who is always going on about inter-House unity? That doesn't sound like the Hermione I know."

There was something so blunt about that simple statement coming out of Harry's mouth--Harry, who had a policy of non-intervention--that it startled Ron. Looking up from where Harry had all but worried apart his cuff, he caught Hermione's brown eyes, and realized that he didn't know much about Hermione anymore, not really. Something had changed in her, and he couldn't tell what, but it was like a shield had gone up, like she had wrapped herself up in something he couldn't get through.

Choosing his words carefully, Ron said quietly, "Dumbledore wanted this. That ought to be enough for you." He had tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, he really had, but he wasn't sure how well he had succeeded.

Hermione recoiled like she'd been slapped and said, "Fine, Ron. Be blind to it. I don't trust her intentions. That's all."

"Well, Ron does, and Dumbledore does, and that should be enough for all of us," Ginny said severely, which shocked Ron a bit, although he was happy for the support anyway. Even if perhaps he maybe didn't trust Pansy enough for everyone.

"Yes, but, well, you know?" Hermione fidgeted and looked away.

"Say it, Hermione," Ron said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, Ron! You're just... easily influenced. You know that. And she's a girl. You have a sort of blind spot where girls are concerned, in case you hadn't noticed," she said quickly.

Ron blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

"I don't think I know you at all anymore, Hermione," Harry said. He shifted slightly, away from her and towards Ron, and began to fiddle with his cuff again.

And Ron and Hermione looked at each other for several minutes, and Ron saw hurt in her eyes, but she deserved it, for the things she had said about him and the things she had said to him. In all of their six years of friendship, he had never wanted to turn his back on her more than he did just then.

"You never stop to think about what you're saying, do you?" Harry whispered, still looking down.

Hermione opened her mouth, but said nothing. Ginny rested her hand on Ron's arm gently.

"You know, Hermione, sometimes despite whatever best intentions you may have, you hurt a lot of people," Harry added, his tone even more disappointed than Ron's mum or dad had ever managed in any of their countless lectures.

Still, she said nothing, and Ron knew then that she didn't know, and that was the problem. Maybe she had never known Ron well enough to understand how much she could hurt him, and maybe, just maybe, she had always just assumed she did know him so well. Maybe she had woefully underestimated him. Maybe she had wrongly placed limitations on him. And maybe he had been blind to it, once.

Ron got up suddenly from the sofa, angry and wanting to be alone, and Ginny and Harry rocked together into the space he vacated, and he left, not bothering to see who would follow, and he made his way to Gryffindor Tower, not looking back.

* * * * *

Pansy walked into the Slytherin common room and checked the large onyx-faced clock on the mantle: nine o'clock exactly. She glanced around at the clumps of her housemates scattered throughout the room in their little cliques, and was relieved that none of them had bothered to give her notice. Four weeks ago, she would have expected at least a casual nod or a slight wave, some sort of gesture or acknowledgement, but now she was thankful that she had fallen so much out of grace that they had seemingly made a house pact to just ignore her. Which made sneaking about so much easier, she had learned.

For example, if everyone was ignoring her, they would take for granted her bulging book bag and think she had, in fact, spent all evening in the library, instead of up on the seventh floor with a bunch of Gryffindors practicing counter-curses and basic defense strategies.

If everyone was ignoring her, they wouldn't stop to ponder the drop of sweat that was making it's lazy way down the side of her face in an ice-cold trickle and how she daubed at it self-consciously as she made her way to the girl's dormitories.

And if everyone was ignoring her, they wouldn't notice the slight bulge in her robes that would, if anyone should bother to inspect, have been found to be a box of chocolates she had gotten by trading her sixth year Charms notes with a Hufflepuff at the DA meeting that night. And, if anyone cared enough to search her bag, they also would have found a small bottle of Muggle laxatives, which rattled slightly as she walked at her usual determined pace, she had paid a Ravenclaw for at the DA meeting the previous week.

However, the only person paying her any attention at all was Blaise Zabini, who did so from under his long dark lashes as he feigned sleep in one of the high-backed armchairs by the fire. Pansy knew he was feigning because no one above first year ever slept in those chairs. After a year of cricked necks, one tended to learn that lesson. And Pansy knew he was watching her because she saw him shift ever so slightly as she passed so that his hand, which dangled off the arm of the chair, brushed against the box of chocolates she had tucked up under her jumper.

Yet, Pansy didn't fall for it. She proceeded on, acting as if that meeting in the library and that slight jostling hadn't happened, and, once she had entered her dormitory, she did as she normally did and set her bag down on her bed and climbed in, closing the hangings around her as she did so, putting forth her best effort, now practiced and refined, not to look at her former best friends.

It was the start of the sixth week of the imposed cold shoulder in the seventh year Slytherin girl's dormitory. They didn't speak to her, and she didn't speak to them. She heard them talk on about their lives like she was just part of the architecture, like a keystone or a gable absorbing their words. She felt high up and out of the way as they spoke about their essays, their letters from home, and their love lives. Daphne had it for Blaise bad, and Pansy had seen with her own eyes Daphne's loopy handwriting spelling out Daphne Zabini on the corners of her magazine covers. Millicent and Gregory had gone to the next step of their relationship, apparently, and were rumored to have consummated their love in Greenhouse Three last week, but Millie would neither confirm nor deny those rumors. Morag, as it were, was crushing on Theodore Nott, the empathetically tortured soul who had filled Pansy's post as Charms tutor, and had taken to wondering aloud what had taken her so long to come to the understanding that not all men were bad, it was just the really bad ones that ruined it for everyone else.

Though Pansy had a few words of advice for them all ("Daphne, you're acting sappy and desperate." "Millicent, don't be stupid. You could do better." "Morag, honey, please. They are all evil. They make you think stupid thoughts, create a want to impress them by doing stupid things, cause you to stay awake late at night wondering what they look like out of those ridiculously tight tee shirts and baggy trousers. So evil!"), like every other night, she soundlessly shut her hangings around her bed, reducing her world to green velvet and the pink and orange throw her gran had knitted for her when she went to Hogwarts, her books, and her latest hobby: Teeny baiting.

It had been remarkably simple, actually, except for some minor setbacks. Everyone in Slytherin House loved Teeny, and at first, Pansy had taken that for granted. So far, her pranks had only resulted in a rally of support for Teeny, which certainly wasn't what Pansy had planned for at all. However, it had inspired members of another house in particular to note that pranking season was open on Slytherin House.

Pansy seriously suspected Ginny Weasley had put the Stink Breath in Teeny's pumpkin juice that fateful morning, as Pansy had overheard Ginny and one of the Creevey brothers talking about some new products coming from Weasley Wizarding Wheezes and had glimpsed Ginny sneaking through the door that led to the kitchens in the early morning on her way to breakfast. Their love for hating Teeny Nott was perhaps the only thing on which they agreed, however.

And now there is this little problem with the dare, Pansy thought as she shoved a laxative pill into the center of one of the truffles with her fingernail, then mended the opening with a tap of her wand. It would have been immensely entertaining to see, indeed! Pansy had ran that Gauntlet so fast driven almost entirely by imagining Teeny's expression when she caught Draco snogging a Weasley, not to mention Draco's unmitigated horror, of course. It was divine! It was a gift from the gods, delivered by Hermes himself! And now it was out the window, thanks to Little Miss Head Girl.

Pansy shoved one of the small pills into the last chocolate rather violently, and a touch of nougat spilled onto her finger. She licked it off absentmindedly and fixed the candy, good as new. She gently laid the chocolate back into its proper spot in the box and resealed the packaging with a simple flick of her wrist.

"Hehehe," Pansy chuckled, setting the chocolates on her pillow and pulling out the card she had prepared to go with the box, and read the note one last time before sealing the envelope.

Like chocolate, my love is sweet. ~ Your Secret Admirer.

Pretending to retch, Pansy sealed the envelope and gently tucked it under the ribbon of the box. Now she just had to kill the time until she could steal away to the Owlery undetected. She'd have to wait until after midnight, no doubt, well after Daphne, Millicent, and Morag had finally shut their yaps and gone to sleep, and well after she could be sure that there was no one in the common room. And just to be safe, she'd take a series of seldom-used staircases and hidden passages up to the tower. It was just one of the many handy things she had learned through the DA in the past month; a silver lining if ever she saw one.

* * * * *

The moonlight wavered at the edges of Ron's vision as he looked out over the grounds from his perch in Gryffindor Tower. Clouds shifted in the night sky, each moment casting fluctuating patches of blue moonlight on the forest and the expanse of lawns below. It was a premonition of bad weather that the trees in the forest rustled in the wind loud enough to be heard from inside the castle, and it was the onslaught of winter that allowed the windowpanes to freeze Ron's nose as he pushed his face against the glass, craning to see out. If he had any luck at all, at least the snow would hold off until after next Saturday and the first Quidditch match of the season, Slytherin versus Gryffindor. He could care less if it snowed after that.

In fact, snow for Hogsmeade weekend, which was the week after, wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. It would definitely discourage Hannah from wanting to spend too much time milling about and window-shopping, which Ron abhorred. He fancied a calm afternoon spent at the Three Broomsticks, sucking down Butterbeer: just him and Hannah and fifty or so of their closest friends. Seriously, he didn't know what he had been on about, asking Hannah to Hogsmeade like that. And he still hadn't told Harry that he'd sort of set him up with Susan Bones. He had no idea what they'd talk about. He didn't even know where to begin to understand a girl like Hannah Abbott. Although, he had a sneaking suspicion that brushing up on the gossip columns in Witch Weekly would be a wise start. Maybe he could convince Ginny to get a subscription. Or maybe she could nick a recent one from Lavender or Parvati. Because, let's face it, he thought, I need a little help here.

It would have been a lot simpler, he thought in hindsight, if he had just decided to go to Hogsmeade by himself. What did he need with girls anyway? It's not like there were any in the castle really worth having--none that he could have just by the wanting, anyway. And love should be simple and not a lot of work. There was one someone for everyone, Ron had decided, and when one finally met that someone things just sort of fell together without a lot of stress, or long boring conversations about feelings, or any of that "we won't let this ruin our friendship" bullshit.

So, yes. Foul weather was approaching, winter was nipping at autumn's heals, and Ron was restless, stuck in the window seat next to Dean, with Harry and Ginny sitting across. For the first half hour or so, he had chatted quietly with Neville about the Whacky Technicolour Freakout! Potion that was brewing in Dean's trunk upstairs, but that subject proved soon exhausted. It would be ready in a scant four days, and just as Neville announced that there was nothing to be done until the morning of Halloween, Ginny had appeared, and Neville had acquiesced his seat beside Harry to her. The conversation had then turned to Quidditch, briefly, before Ginny had yawned largely and snuggled against Harry's shoulder. Then Dean had pulled out his sketchbook, and Harry had looked out the window.

And for the past hour, Ginny had slept, Dean had sketched, Harry and Ron had looked out the window, and the common room had twittered with the sounds of hushed conversations, rustling parchments, the ever-present Creevey brothers communing in a corner, and Seamus, making an arse of himself, as usual.

Every now and again, Ron would fidget and either knock Dean's sketchbook with his knee, or bang his elbow against Dean's arm. On such occasion, Dean would glare at him (as much of a glare as Dean ever had purpose to give) and then Ron would mutter an apology and go back to staring out the window.

Ron soon turned his restless attention from the grounds to the common room. Seamus, whom Dean appeared now to be sketching, was standing near the fire gesticulating wildly as he described, for perhaps the hundredth time, the Kenmare Kestrals game he had seen that summer. A group of younger students, both boys and girls, sat in a loose circle around him, watching, and several people seemed to have forgotten their studies in lieu of Seamus' animated farce. Neville was curled up at the foot of the window seat on a shaggy rug with Bob standing on his chest, moving up and down with Neville's steady breathing, eyes flicking constantly around the room, tail moving every now and again across the dark blue wool of Neville's jumper. It was rather disturbing, Ron decided, and if he could help it, he would never provide occasion to spend any time alone with Bob, or any other iguana for that matter. He didn't think they were to be trusted.

And while Dean sketched, Seamus charaded, Neville slept, Bob creeped-out Ron, and Ron eyed Bob, Ginny had her head resting on Harry's shoulder and they did appear to be, in fact, holding hands, although not conspicuously. Ginny was asleep, and their clasped hands were jammed down between their thighs, and thus mostly out of sight except to Ron and Dean. Harry was still looking out the window, rolling his forehead against the cold glass, frowning slightly.

Ron watched Bob, checked on the progress of Dean's work, and tried not to pay attention to Ginny and Harry curled up across from him. It was getting on half past ten now, and if Hermione had been there, she already would have sent the first and second years to bed, as they were now falling asleep in little folded piles all around the common room. Ron momentarily thought of sending them off to their dormitories himself, but seeing as he had been the first in the window seat, he was sufficiently blocked in by Dean, who was drawing, after all, and probably shouldn't be disturbed. Shucks.

Harry shifted to look at Ron, causing Ginny's eyes to open momentarily before re-adjusting her body against Harry's. Harry's thumb caressed along the bones of Ginny's forefinger, and Ron sighed softly.

"Hey," Harry said quietly, his eyes seeking out and locking on Ron's.

"Hey," Ron echoed, returning Harry's stare.

"All right?" Harry said. He stretched out his right leg so that his foot snaked into the mere inches between Ron's hip and the window.

"Yeah," Ron said wearily, untying Harry's sneaker laces. "Sometimes I just don't know, you know?" He looked quickly out the window, away from Harry.

Harry's foot nudged Ron. "Tell me."

"You know what?" Ron said, leaning forward a little and motioning for Harry to do the same. When their faces were just inches apart, Ron whispered, "I've still got Hermione's birthday present. I was going to keep it, but I just keep feeling guiltier and guiltier about it." Ron broke off, looking out the window again, but not moving away from Harry. "I think maybe..."

Harry was looking at him intently with that friends-to-the-end, I'm-here-for-you-mate look on his face. "You've still got feelings for her?"

Ron shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I just, I don't know. I guess I miss how things were, maybe." Ron sat back in the window seat, but kept his eyes locked with Harry's.

Harry nodded, and they shared several moments of silence, during which Ron fidgeted with the cuffs of his jumper.

"Ron?" Harry asked curiously.

Ron looked up.

"You don't like Pansy Parkinson, do you?"

Ron looked out the window quickly, feeling a blush spread before he could help it.

"Oh, Christ," Dean said suddenly, turning the page in his sketchbook, apparently done with Seamus.

"What?" Ron said vehemently, aware that the blood in his face was burning. "I don't like her, not like that. Not at all."

Harry and Dean exchanged a skeptical look and Ginny was roused from sleep.

"Parkinson is..." Dean shuddered, then stood up, and, nudging Neville with his foot until the other boy woke up, gave Ron a very critical look. "You could do much better, mate."

"I never said... I don't!" Ron sputtered indignantly.

"Who?" Ginny said blearily. "Ron could do better than who?"

"NO ONE!" Ron said, getting angrier by the second.

"Oh, I think you're selling yourself a bit short there, mate," Harry said, grinning.

Neville sat up, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he cradled Bob against his chest with the other. "Ron likes who?"

Ron groaned and put his face in his palm, yet he could still see Harry's smirk as he sang a few taunting notes before getting kicked in the shin by Ron, "Ron and Pa--OUCH!"

Hastily climbing out of the window seat after Dean, Ron nearly landed right on top of Neville, who was in the process of getting up himself and making to follow Dean up the stairs to the dormitory.

"Going to bed?" Harry asked.

"I've got to finish a letter I started to Charlie," Ron lied. Well, it was only a half-lie, really. He hadn't actually started a letter to Charlie, but he did still owe him one from a few weeks back. He was terrible with correspondence, he knew, but at least this afforded him an excuse to nab Harry's Invisibility Cloak for a stroll to the Owlery later.

"You still haven't written him back?" Ginny asked incredulously through a yawn as she stretched her hands high above her head, causing her jumper to rise up and expose pale skin.

"I'm working on it," Ron said flippantly, tugging on his trouser legs so that the waistband slid further down his hips. He could have sworn this pair hadn't been too short at the beginning of September.

"I think you're avoiding the subject," Harry said, grinning mischievously.

"Nonsense," Ron said shortly, aware that his ears, in fact, were burning to match his cheeks. "I just haven't had anything to write about to him before."

"Oh? And what, pray tell, have you got to write to him now?" Ginny questioned, getting up from the window seat herself. She jabbed him playfully in the shoulder and stage-whispered, "Has Ronnie got himself a crush on a bad girl?"

Pushing her away, Ron laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. I was going to write to him about Quidditch."

"About Quidditch?" Harry repeated.

"Yes, about Quidditch," Ron said defensively. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He walked into the center of the room and raised his hands above his head. "Oy!" he called, gaining the attention of most of the people in the common room. "Time for bed, eh?"

There were several groans and more than a few glares, but everyone begrudgingly gathered their things and made their way up to their dormitories. It made Ron feel tyrannical, almost, that he had used such a totalitarian device as imposing bedtime in order to get out of talking about his love life with his best friend. Desperate times and such.

* * * * *

In the Owlery, Pansy withdrew the wrapped box of chocolates from beneath her jumper and looked up into the glittering eyes of the hundred of owls roosting above her. Her breath froze in a plume in the air in front of her, and she shifted from one foot to the next. It was freaking freezing in there, and she hadn't even thought to wear a cloak. She pulled her turtleneck up as far as it would go, to just beneath her nose, and tugged her sleeves down around her hands. It smelled like owl droppings and snow, and Pansy had thought she ought to hurry before she caught her death.

The first owl she reached for bit her. The second owl she reached for turned its back on her. The third owl bristled its feathers in a rather menacing way. The fourth owl shimmied away from her. She didn't have much luck with the fifth, either, and by the time she got to the sixth, her fingers were frozen and she was out of nice things to say.

"Come here, you little bastard! Don't look at me that way! I know where you sleep! Quit being such a--OUCH! That hurt, you little fucktard!" She made a desperate attempt to grasp the seventh owl, but the bird was too fast, and her hands closed around air as it flew off to a higher perch.

"Right," Pansy mumbled, rubbing her hands together and doing the I'm-so-cold-my-toes-are-going-to-fall-off dance. "Right." She knew she should have asked her parents for an owl instead of a larger shoe budget. Not that she would have been stupid enough to use her own owl for such an incriminating purpose, but she couldn't help but feel that her current state of distress hinged on her parent's declining to give her more pocket money. Yes, it was entirely their fault, the old, stingy, out-of-touch-with-fashion bastards. She scanned the rows of school owls that were in reach, looking for perhaps one in deep sleep or a runty one that would be easier to catch. Unfortunately for her, owls were nocturnal and the small ones only moved faster. So after another fifteen minutes of failed attempts to woo an owl into delivering her package, Pansy was ready to resign it to fate.

"Ah, f-f-f-uck-k-k it-t-t-t- a-a-a-a-ll," she said miserably, her teeth chattering. She turned to face the door, when, quite unprovoked, it shut with a deafening slam. En masse, the roosts emptied and all of the owls picked up their wings and exited out of the large Romanesque windows. Pansy fell to her knees in the scattered hay and owl droppings, covering her head with her arms. The wings of so many owls flapping at once caused quite the gale in the tower room, and Pansy just knew she'd be picking owl shit out of her hair for days. Not the HAIR! she thought, desperately trying to pull her cloak up over her head.

When all was silent, Pansy slowly lifted her head and peaked out from between her elbows. The room was deathly silent now, and, upon looking up into the shadowy corners of the tower, she determined that all of the owls, in fact, had fled, and she was, in fact, rather screwed. It was eerily quiet, actually, unnatural.

She thought she saw something move out of the corner of her eye, but when she whirled, no one was there. Her eyes darted around the room, and with frozen fingers, her hand dove for her wand, which was tucked into her boot under her trousers. She grasped it with numb fingers, fumbled, and dropped it. When she finally managed to grab hold of it, she straightened up quickly and turned 360 degrees, holding her wand out.

She turned back to the door, and this time, it was standing open. How it had opened if no one was there was a mystery, as well as how it had opened soundlessly, and when exactly did that happen, anyway?

Cautiously, Pansy slunk into the shadows at the edge of the room and began to make her way to the door, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She had the overwhelming urge to pee, and her hand shook as she aimed her wand at the door. With her left hand, she felt along the wall behind her, keeping her eyes trained on the door.

She was within three feet of the door, when suddenly, out in the hall, a black shadow passed, and at that very moment, something grabbed her wand-arm by the wrist and yanked her backward. She lost her balance, landing against something solid, and then was shrouded in a gauzy fabric as another hand closed over her mouth just as she was about to scream. Instinctively, she jerked, trying to pull away, and then she was spun around by strong arms and was looking straight at Ron Weasley, who had managed somehow in the fumble to keep his hand over her mouth.

Ron looked deathly pale, whether it was the moonlight streaming in through the Owlery windows or all of the blood had drained from his face, she couldn't be sure. Hell, he could have been the walking dead right then, and she still would have been glad to see him, given the circumstances, in comparison to anyone else. The shroud seemed to be a lightweight, see-through cloak, which, after a moment's thought, Pansy recognized as an Invisibility Cloak. They were very rare, and really expensive, and the fact that Ron Weasley had one just didn't add up. Unless he was borrowing it from Harry and the rumors were true.

One of his hands had a vice-like hold on her wrist, still, and she knew she couldn't do a damn thing with her wand had she wanted to try. He did not seem inclined to release his other hand, either, although the threat of Pansy screaming was well past. She shook her head a little, trying to indicate that he could bloody well let her go now, but he kept his eyes trained on the door and didn't budge.

So she did what any sensible girl in her position would do: she stuck out her tongue and slobbered all over him.

Ron released her instantly with a very disgusted look on his face. "What the fuck?" his eyes implored as he wiped his hand on the thigh of his trousers.

"What's going on?" Pansy's eyes flashed in response before she turned around, trying to get out from under the cloak.

Ron pulled her back, wrapping his left arm around her chest and holding her against him.

"Weasley," she breathed, barely audible, "let me go."

"Shhh." His breath stirred her hair slightly. He nudged her forward, moving his knee fractionally against the back of her leg, and together they made their way the last several feet to the door and peered out.

There's something moving out there! Pansy thought desperately at Ron. A black-hooded being was retreating down the hall. Her insides froze in panic, and when Ron nudged her forward again, she shook her head and refused to move.

"Move!" he whispered into her ear, sounding a touch frantic.

"Can't," Pansy whispered back.

Ron nudged her more insistently, throwing more of his weight into her. She went off balance, and in order to keep from falling, took a step out into the hall. "Tapestry," Ron hissed, turning her body slightly to the left.

Pansy looked across the hall at a large red tapestry woven with dancing unicorns. Behind it was the hidden passage Pansy had taken up from the second floor.

"One." Ron's lips moved against her hair.

Pansy looked down the corridor, where the black-hooded thing had just rounded the corner.

"Two." Ron urged her forward slightly with his knee and let go of her wand hand.

Pansy looked down the other end of the corridor, and they were plunged into darkness suddenly as the clouds shifted back over the moon.

Ron slowly removed his arm from around Pansy, and she felt for sure her limbs would never comply with her mind, which was now, at this time, telling her to...

"Three!"

GO!

In a series of maddening, jostling, bumping, stretching, careening steps, they raced across the hall under the Invisibility Cloak, and, lifting one arm above her, Ron jerked the tapestry aside. With the other arm, he pushed Pansy right into something very, very solid.

At first, she thought that perhaps it was a wall, and they had simply gone behind the wrong tapestry. But then the wall grew long strong fingers that pulled the cloak away from Pansy's face and a voice that whispered "Lumos!" so that she was staring straight up into Professor Snape's illuminated sneer.

Pansy gulped and thought perhaps the noise had echoed in the stairway before realizing that it was Ron gulping behind her in much the same panicked-thought-slightly-relieved manner.

Snape's dark eyes flicked to the tapestry they had just come through. Then his eyes flickered back over Pansy and to Ron. "Miss Parkinson, Mr. Weasley," he began dryly, "you do realize that you are out-of-bounds with a Weasley and a Slytherin, respectively, don't you?"

Pansy nodded and felt Ron do the same. They were standing obscenely close in the stairwell, still touching in spots: his chest against her shoulder blades, the tops of his thighs against the curve of her bum, his right leg against and slightly in front of hers, as if seeking to wrap around.

"And I suppose you both have a good reason for this?" Snape's voice was chill, but slightly amused.

"Erm..." Ron began.

Pansy thought about the laxative-laced chocolates stuffed under her jumper and about standing this close to Ron, feeling his pulse, even, and firmly shook her head. Forget that there was a black-hooded figure marauding about the castle; she could swear Ron was getting an erection. It was just a subtle pressure in her back as he shifted his weight behind her, yet she was fairly confident she'd know a stiffie when she felt one. And she wasn't wearing knickers.

This was all rather discomforting.

Snape's lips curled back to bare his yellow teeth in what Pansy recognized as his victorious, I've-got-you-now smile, and indicated with a nod of his head that they should descend the stairs. "To the Headmaster."

Pansy shifted her weigh, ready to go to Dumbledore's office, having decided that, on balance. it was easier to comply than argue. She moved to her right, but Ron held still, which only caused her to brush up against more of Ron than she thought her brain could handle, when Ron spoke.

"Professor, there is someone else out there," Ron said quietly.

"Oh-ho!" Snape exclaimed. "I'm not that stupid, Weasley."

"Well, actually," Ron began, but Pansy put her foot down heavily on his toe, her mind springing alive with the ingenious plan that if they could only get rid of Snape, then... and there her plan ingeniously ended.

"Professor Snape, please! We saw someone in a black cloak pass the Owlery. He slammed the door as he passed, and it scared away all of the owls," Pansy whispered desperately, her voice hitching slightly at the end when Ron's hand settled in the curve of her hip.

Snape was yet unmoved. "Someone in a black cloak? That is conveniently vague."

Ron exhaled a frustrated breath into Pansy's hair. "Just go look, okay? Isn't that why you're out here to begin with?"

Pansy shuddered.

Apparently considering this, Snape turned his attention to the tapestry again.

For a long moment, Pansy dared not breathe. Her heart thundered, and she wondered that Snape couldn't hear it. There didn't seem to be any room at all left in the stairway. Any moment, she'd run out of oxygen and someone would have to carry her to bed. That's not helping, she thought at herself. It's just a touch. Just a touch. Just a thumb braced against my lower back. I'm sure it's all for balance, anyway. Yes, that's right, balance.

"Weasley, Parkinson, I expect to meet you in the Headmaster's office in no fewer than twenty minutes," Snape hissed before extinguishing the light on his wand.

They were plunged into darkness. Pansy heard the tapestry sweep open and close behind her. She closed her eyes and swayed, just a bit. Ron's hand at her hip pulled her back, and she steadied, waiting for... something, breathing in little half-breaths through her nose. There was a moment as they stood there, his hand on her hip, her eyes shut and leaning into him, when she felt something come together, felt him slowly move his thumb a half an inch (not more) along her spine, felt his leg press just slightly into hers. What was it that came after this in those paperback romances? A sweeping off her feet, a passionate embrace, a long awaited kiss, hot mouths and mashing lips?

Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't a pulling away and nudging forward again, this time with a torso and not a leg, a hip, or a groin. Pansy's eyes flashed open, and there was a paralyzing moment that her eyes failed to adjust to the darkness and she felt distinctly as though she were floating off into space, being sucked into some terrible gaping nothingness. There was a sudden emptiness all around her, and she froze just a bit. Then her hand found the wall and her hypersensitive ears picked out the sound of Ron breathing behind her, and she began to descend.

They made their way down the long flight of pitch-black stairs by touch: Pansy traced her left hand along the wall, her wand drawn in her right, and Ron put his left hand on her shoulder, his wand also drawn. In the darkness, she was intimately aware of him: the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the heat of their combined breath in the staircase, the soft swish of their trousers and cloaks as they descended the stairs. She never even thought to light her wand.

Every time Ron stepped down, she felt the air move and heard the rustle of the Invisibility Cloak hanging off his shoulders. This way, she came to learn when Ron was stepping down and was able to keep a step ahead of him. Before she figured out this dandy trick, there had been a few painfully crowded steps where bits of her came into contact with bits of him and it was all rather awkward and fumbling until she figured out the step trick, which had made their descent much less embarrassing. Finally, they came to another tapestry, and carefully, very carefully, Ron pulled it aside, and they peaked out.

In the second floor corridor, all was as it should be. The torchlight filling the hallway caused Pansy to blink several times as her eyes adjusted, Ron leading the way into the corridor and to the gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office. He paused for a second, stuffing the cloak under his maroon jumper. Pansy leaned against the wall and looked off to the left, down the corridor, unwilling to look at Ron, afraid she'd see there, in that face which had become familiar to her, a look she didn't know how to react to. She knew she had come very close to something back there, something indefinite and strange, and the weight of its unknown quantities pulled like gravity on her heart and she found herself, at just that moment, yielding. Her hand extended into the chill hallway to tuck one last silver corner under the hem of Ron's sweater.

"Ah! There you are!" The jovial voice split the air and Pansy and Ron both jumped. Quickly, she pulled her hand back into her sleeve and lowered her arm to her side.

"Professor Dumbledore," Ron exclaimed, sounding both relieved and astonished. "We were--"

Dumbledore raised a quelling hand. "I know all about it, Mr. Weasley." He gave Pansy a twinkling, appraising look, and then said, "I believe we have the pleasure of meeting again in my office. This makes twice yet this term, doesn't it?"

Pansy and Ron both nodded.

"Ah, so be it. Our business in this world is not to succeed, but to continue to fail, in good spirits." Dumbledore began down the hallway.

Finally, Pansy raised her eyes and found Ron looking back at her. There was something calming and soothing about his expression then: something like still water, something reaching out to her. And it occurred to Pansy, as she pushed herself from the wall and fell into step beside Ron as they followed Dumbledore up the winding stairs to his office, that people, after all, were only ever separated by space.

And the space between them suddenly didn't seem so vast and unknowable.