Pariah

Pariah, Chapter Eight

A Series of Saturdays

Polar opposites don't push away

It's the same on the weekends

as the rest of the days

And I know I should go

but I'll probably stay

and that's all you can do

about some things

Polar Opposites, Modest Mouse

The First of November: Slytherin vs. Gryffindor

The first blue light of pre-dawn broke through Ron's dreams and shook him suddenly awake. Sitting on the edge of his bed, knees on elbows, head in hands, bent over looking at the floor, was Harry.

It took Ron several seconds before he remembered why Harry was in his bed, and then a rush of images from the previous night flooded back to him: pillow fight, bed, McGonagall, Hermione. He lifted his head off his pillow enough to see a smudge of blood on the sheet where Harry had been laying. There was still an impression in the sheet of his curled up form, and Ron knew if he ran his hand over the rumpled white cotton, it would be warm.

Slowly, and with a grin as wide as the Pitch itself, Ron pushed himself up on his elbows. "Bloody hell, my brain feels fuzzy," he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Harry snapped his head around.

"Been up long?" Ron continued casually. Then he noticed the look on Harry's face: pallid and sick. His eyes were surrounded in smudges of purple-black in the breaking morning. "Hey," Ron said again, concern softening his voice. He sat up so that he could look Harry directly in the eye. "What's the matter? Are you feeling all right? Is it your scar?" Ron's eyes automatically flicked up to see Harry's scar, which contrasted his pale face in an angry red line.

"Fucking..." Harry rubbed at his scar with a fair amount of frustration. His face scrunched up as he did so, and Ron saw the tiniest amount of dried blood just on the underside of his bottom lip.

"Dreams?" Ron asked quietly, leaning into Harry a bit more.

"I had another one," Harry said miserably.

"What about this time?" Ron asked curiously and cautiously, surveying his friend.

"Professor Tonks and Malfoy," Harry said distractedly. "Again."

Ron sat silent for a moment, pensively watching as the sun broke over the Forbidden Forest. The curve of the sun crested, changing the room's hue from blue to orange, and Ron watched Harry place one shaking hand on each knee and take a slow, deep breath. Ron knew that Harry had been having dreams about Professor Tonks--Professor Andromeda Tonks, Sirius' favorite cousin--and Malfoy, but Ron's imagination had to fill in from there. He knew it had to do with Voldemort by comments Harry sometimes made in passing. He also knew that whatever happened in these dreams had led Harry to believe that Professor Tonks was not to be trusted. Furthermore, whatever Harry saw behind his eyes in his sleep made him extremely edgy and ill, and it hurt Ron to see it. It hurt Ron a lot.

"You gonna be okay, mate?" Ron asked softly, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Yeah," Harry said, giving Ron an appreciative grin.

"Good enough to beat Malfoy today?" Ron asked, reflexively grinning back.

"It's not hard." Harry smiled then, a bona fide Harry smile, and the sun cleared the tree line, and everything was awash in light.

* * *

As a rule, Pansy did not do moral dilemmas. She also, as a rule, did not do ex-boyfriends. Although, granted, the latter rule was a new rule, adopted at precisely 9:26 a.m. on the morning of Saturday, the first of November, as she stood in the showers letting the near-scalding water run over her body. She was exactly one week shy of turning 18, and if there was ever a time that Pansy had felt worse in her life, she could not remember it.

She had been awake for hours, staring at the dark ceiling. She had heard her dorm mates wake and leave. She had listened to their footfalls on the stairs and to the ensuing din in the common room as they gathered and left for the Great Hall. In the inevitable quiet that followed, she made her way slowly to the showers, pink fuzzy slippers flapping as she tugged on the snarls in her dark hair.

She had smelled of smoke and sweat and sex, and her clothes, which she hadn't bothered to change out of, smelled of him. Her hips felt bruised and her mouth felt foreign to her, with his taste still lingering, even as she opened it under the pouring water and let it overflow until it was running down her chin and onto her chest. Her scalp held the memory of his fingers pulling her hair, even as she scrubbed with her fingernails over and over in the suds of her best citrus shampoo. When she closed her eyes, she saw him, above her, everywhere. She could almost still feel the scrape of his fingernails on her most tender flesh. She wondered if she had marks.

It would figure, wouldn't it, that when she couldn't have him, when she didn't even want him, he should be so inescapable?

And the worst part was, while she wouldn't allow herself to regret what she had done (Hadn't she wanted to? Hadn't he?), the small amount of triumph which she felt in having gotten even that part of him back was enough to sicken her. She could give a fuck about Teeny and how Draco had betrayed their relationship: she had betrayed herself. It wasn't progress. Not for her. It had been desperate and she had been weak, and she didn't want Draco if Draco could fuck her over so easily.

There was no power in this. Draco would never own it. There was too much at stake for him. And if she should ever choose to tell it, it only made her out to be worse. Her shame would eclipse his. He had gotten the best of her, and it wasn't the first time. She had her back up against an ugly double standard, even as she leaned against the cold white tile of the shower, her body slick with another layer of soap.

"If it's worth anything, I'm certain that I loved you," he had whispered in her ear afterwards.

Pansy wrenched in pain at the memory of his lips on her ear, whispering tenderness as he rubbed her belly in small circles with just the tips of his fingers. She gagged and spit, watching the amber-hued saliva whirl before vanishing down the drain. Her mouth was coated with it, the taste of the treacherous brandy and his desire.

"You betrayed me, Pansy. You turned your back on me. What was I supposed to do?"

She turned her face back under the water, tilting her chin down to her chest and opening her eyes. Her hair fell in a sleek black veil, her hands out in front of her. Steady. Breathe.

"If only you had listened," he had said. "If only you had believed me."

The water carried the soap off of her shoulders, down her arms and back, over the curves of her thighs and calves, and down around her ankles to the drain.

She had turned to him, in the smoky haze, his breath cooling the sweat on her neck. "It's not always about you."

He had toyed with the hair around her face, brushing it out of her eyes and away from her mouth where strands stuck to her lips. It was one of his quiet moments of the sort he had frequently during sixth year. It was several minutes before he spoke, and what he said had made Pansy shiver and still. "I don't think you get it at all, Parkinson."

And she had known then what she had only ever suspected before: there was very little, if any, of her Draco left in this Draco. Her Draco had been lovable and capable of loving in return. This Draco was broken. This Draco was burning. This Draco had hate spreading out into every aspect of him like a drop of ink bled into parchment.

There were some truths, Pansy thought, turning the knobs until the water stopped and running her hands back over her hair to wring it out, that were better kept secret. She stood in the steam until it dissipated, replaced by the creeping, cold morning air.

* * *

It was perhaps no secret to anyone at Hogwarts that the Gryffindor Quidditch team was by far the most capable of winning the Cup. Ron had been working harder than hell all season with his players, working on developing synchronization and style and what Charlie had called "group-think". Their team had played together a few years, which gave them an edge over Slytherin, which that year had all new Chasers. Ginny, Natalie, and Jack could fly circles around anyone. The way Ginny led them was almost mesmerizing, and they flew into catches and spun out of passes as if they were reading each other's minds.

Dennis and Colin were equally impressive in their capacity as Beaters, and there was a slogan in the house that "Brothers Made the Best Beaters", as Dennis and Colin seemed to follow in the twins' footsteps in their ability to wield their bats. It was almost as if they shared the same mind when they were on the pitch, moving together often without communicating at all. They flew with an air of complete confidence and an unsettling cool that Ron, upon contemplation, attributed to their adventurous and happy-go-lucky dispositions rather than the fact that they really knew what they were doing. That, and they were as lucky as Harry.

Of course, there was no denying that Harry was the best Seeker Hogwarts had perhaps ever seen. There were rumors, even, that the Arrows were scouting him, but Harry had never mentioned it to him, and so Ron didn't put much stock in that. Although, he surely was good enough to play professional Quidditch if he should decide to forsake his career in Dark wizard hunting.

Ron was also rather proud of himself. Since winning the Cup at the end of fifth year, he had only had a few minor moments of debilitating self-doubt. He knew he was capable. He had proven it to his team and to the entire school, and perhaps it was this, more than anything else, that made Ron worry about his team Saturday morning at breakfast. It was just too good to be true. Something had to go wrong. Wasn't it his luck, anyway? Something would foul up terribly, and then at the very last possible moment, things would work out to their advantage.

Anxiety began to unfurl in Ron's stomach as the Gryffindor team breakfasted in collective silence. Ginny was staring blankly out the window, a piece of toast halfway to her lips. Natalie was reading her Charms text, and beside her Jack was poking halfheartedly at his sausages. Harry looked angry and pale as he pushed his eggs around his plate, and Dennis and Colin had even taken on the look of two boys mourning a dead dog. And if Ron looked as sorrowful and out-of-sorts as he felt, they were the very epitome of gloomy. Soon enough, one by one, they all set down their silverware and pushed back their plates. Without a word, they rose and headed down to the pitch to change into their Quidditch robes.

* * *

Pansy paused on the top step as the last of the Gryffindor Quidditch team slipped out the great oak doors of the castle. She noticed Teeny on the steps above her when the other girl cleared her throat primly and continued on her way until she was standing before Pansy.

Pansy looked her up and down, raising one eyebrow. She was covered from tip to toe in green and silver, much more than Pansy was wearing and certainly much more than was appropriate. "It looks like a shamrock threw up all over you and then someone shot you full of mercury."

Teeny laughed in that tinny high laugh of hers and touched her cold fingers to Pansy's cheek. "How the mighty have fallen."

"Don't touch me," Pansy hissed, swatting away Teeny's hand.

Teeny pursed her lips and cocked her head to one side. "Temper, Parkinson. More flies with honey and all that."

Pansy considered, briefly, telling Teeny what she had done last night in the dungeons with her boyfriend, but decided, on balance, that it wasn't worth it. "You know what, Teeny?"

"Hmmm?" Teeny hummed, a bemused grin on her lips.

"You're just a little girl prancing about in her mother's shoes." Pansy crossed her arms over her chest and watched the expression on Teeny's face instantly darken. When she didn't say anything, Pansy laughed bitterly. "I'm afraid they're much too big for you."

"You're pathetic," Teeny said, voice low in anger.

"Pot meet kettle," Pansy said, stepping around her and opening the door of the Great Hall. She glanced over her shoulder at Teeny, glaring at her still. Pansy adopted her most dulcet tones and sweetest smile. "The benefit, dear Teeny, of being me is that everyone else who follows in my footsteps is merely a cheap knock-off. Your dullness bores me endlessly." Pansy blew her a kiss and went in to breakfast.

* * *

It was early; they had plenty of time. Ron walked slowly in step with Harry, and before too long, everyone had passed them, plodding down the hill several meters ahead of them. It was a bright day for autumn. Sunlight reflected off the lake and it hurt Ron's eyes to look at it. Beside him, Harry swung his arms back and forth with every step. Sometimes their wrists would knock together as they walked, neither uttering a word.

Ron felt strangely anxious as he pulled his Quidditch robes over his head and began to go over his broom, looking for twigs to clip, anything to focus on. His stomach was clenched and he felt a little clammy.

Slowly, the din from the stands grew louder.

Harry was the first to stand. He flattened his hair over his forehead, pulled at the neck of his Quidditch robes, gripped his Firebolt, and looked around at the rest of them. Ron stood up beside him, adjusting his own robes again and hanging onto his old Cleansweep. Ginny took up on Ron's other side, her face rapt with determination, and Ron turned around to see Dennis and Colin clap bats and Natalie and Jack slap each other on the back.

"Let's do this then, shall we?" Ron said as he opened the door and stepped out onto the Pitch to the crowd's roar.

* * *

It had been, more than any other single factor, the prospect of seeing Draco humiliated by Potter yet again that lured Pansy into the stands that beautiful, too bright day.

She sat in the front row of a section peopled entirely by the Shop Owner's Guild, Hogsmeade Local #27. It wasn't too bad: their conversations revolved entirely around small business practice and a proposed goblin strike, which was certainly much more palatable to Pansy than listening to the Slytherins, who would no doubt be talking about how great Draco's lame party had been and how they were destined to win that day, and blah blah blah. It was always the same with them, every time: trash talk the opponents, idly threaten Madam Hooch under their collective breath, and then suspect Gryffindor of cheating when Potter caught the Snitch. Of course, they were sure to flatten Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff without much contest, so even if Gryffindor won today, the house still had an above average shot at the Cup. At her core, Pansy was indeed a house loyalist, and she would cling to her aspiration to see the Cup returned to Slytherin even if it did entail de facto rooting for Draco.

When the Gryffindor team made their way onto the Pitch, there was a roar of applause and cheering from most of the crowd, and a substantial hiss rose from the Slytherin contingent. Pansy hissed as well. What could she do? She was, after all, sporting her green and silver. How would it look if she did not participate in some petty taunting?

When the Slytherin team stepped out seconds later, Draco in the lead, hair reflecting white-blonde sunshine, the hissing turned to cheers, and Pansy felt herself drawn up with the crowd and clapping. There was a slight tug at her heart, but it was only slight, and when the man to her left passed her a bag of roasted almonds, she took one gratefully, and thanked him with a smile.

Local #27 clapped throughout, no doubt careful not to choose sides. Pansy saw Mr. Honeyduke hand a small stack of galleons to Madam Rosmerta, who winked and made a note of it. Pansy hoped that he was betting for at least a 200 point spread at game's end, because if he was a smart man, he'd know that Gryffindor was bound to get the Snitch, and with the strength of their Chasers, the Slytherin team wouldn't get within five goals. That was history. That was fact. As much as it pained Pansy to admit, the Gryffindor team could wipe the Pitch with Slytherin. Their only chance was to depend heavily on Crabbe and Goyle to unnerve Ginny with constant Bludger attacks, but they'd have to be quick to get to the bat before the Creevey brothers. By the end of last season, the Creevey brothers were returning seven of ten Bludger attacks in the Cup match against Ravenclaw. Crabbe and Goyle were lucky to get half.

Yes, the extent to which they were going to lose would be enough to send Draco into a barely-suppressed depression for at least a week. Pansy chuckled at the thought. Bloody bastard deserved it and much more, anyhow.

Pansy watched as Draco and Ron shook hands on the pitch, holding still for an entire minute, as Draco no doubt tried to crush the other captain's hand. It was tradition in Slytherin, after all, passed down from Captain to Captain, never mind how childish and ridiculously macho it was.

The Captains broke apart and Madam Hooch blew her whistle. Fourteen broomsticks rose into the air, the balls were released, and the game was on. The crowd rose to its feet automatically, and Pansy watched as the Quaffle was snatched up by Ginny in a graceful loop and passed so quickly to one of the other Chasers that Pansy would have missed it if she hadn't been watching Ginny so closely. The Seekers rose naturally above the game, though on separate ends of the Pitch. After a few moments, Draco circled to closely mark Harry. Pansy glanced up at regular intervals to see if any progress had been made on locating the Snitch, but it appeared that the two Seekers were much more likely to be exchanging insults. She would have called it conversation, even, given how close Draco was tailing Harry, had it not been for the fact that they hated each other.

It was fifteen minutes into the game, Gryffindor leading 60-10, and Pansy had just glanced up after Gryffindor had scored again, making so many passes as they approached the rings that Pansy had quit counting at ten. Harry was diving steeply, Draco right beside him. The crowd inhaled sharply as a Bludger zoomed just past the twigs of their brooms, missing by a tenth of a second. Harry and Draco seemed unaffected, and all eyes were on them as they neared the ground. They were twenty feet above the grass, neither apparently willing to pull up, both arms outstretched, when, out of nowhere, a big green something fell on top of them both, flattening them into the ground with a terribly loud, echoing thud.

The Pitch was all but mute. Pansy's hand instinctively clapped over her open mouth. She could see Draco's body, wrapped in green, his bright hair fanned out on the grass beneath his head. He wasn't moving. None of them were moving. Local #27 was murmuring behind her. Madam Hooch landed beside the crumpled boys within seconds, and Professors McGonagall and Snape were running onto the grass calling for someone to get Madam Pomfrey. But it was Ron's shout as he ran across the Pitch to the tangle of bodies that shook the horrified crowd out of its silence.

* * *

In the hospital wing, Ron nervously worked the hem of his Quidditch robe between his bloodstained fingers. They were brown now, the blood having dried in the hours since the three bodies had been lifted onto stretchers and hauled to the infirmary. By now, everyone had gone except for Ron. The sky was black outside the tall windows, and Ron suspected it was past dinner, but still, they would have to drag him from Harry's side by force if they wanted him to leave.

It had been horrible, and Ron had seen it all in slow motion: had seen the Seekers dive, had seen the failed Bludger sent by Crabbe, had seen Dennis hit the Bludger up to Colin as Colin misfired the one in hand so that it hit Goyle, hovering thirty feet above the Seekers and looking down. He had seen Goyle fall off his broom, limp as a discarded doll. Before Goyle had even landed on the Seekers, Ron had been speeding to them on his broom, yelling. But Harry hadn't heard. And now Harry lay, unconscious, his head wrapped in thick bandages, as the sun went around the other side of the world and the house-elves cleaned up after dinner in the kitchens.

Ron had hoisted Goyle off Harry despite Madam Hooch telling him not to. He had held Harry's head in his hands. His fingers had traced the crack in Harry's skull, had felt where his black hair was warm and sticky and soaked in blood. Harry's eyes were closed, thank god, unlike Draco, who was staring vacantly at the sky. Ron had thought them all dead, and he had pointed his wand at Professor McGonagall and yelled, "Save him!" He hadn't remembered doing it, but Ginny had told him about it later in the hospital wing, voice shaking.

Ron's mind had turned it all over in his brain, and he was calmer now. Harry would live. Harry would wake up and be fine. That's just the way these things worked.

Of course, Dumbledore's words had been comforting. "Harry has been through much worse than a fall off a broomstick, Mr. Weasley. Do not underestimate his strength." Then the headmaster had placed one paper-thin hand on his shoulder for a moment while addressing Madam Pomfrey.

"As you know, Headmaster," Pomfrey had said, pursing her lips and looking at the three almost-men who had been carted in that afternoon, "time heals all wounds."

And so that's what Ron had thought about in the steadily darkening room. Time. Which made him think of the Time Room in the Department of Mysteries and about the Time Turner and about growing up being Harry Potter's best friend and about breaking up with Hermione and about all of the time he had spent and where had it gone, anyway? And what good had it done? If he could trace the lines of his life like the lines of his palm, running the edge of his bitten fingernail in the creases of skin, where would they lead him? What good would it do, anyway? What good did it do to be waiting, now?

Only he couldn't think of anything else to do.

Hermione had been the last to leave over an hour ago, and there hadn't been a single noise in the hospital wing since the double doors had shut softly behind her. She had put her arms around Ron and cried into his shoulder and he had put his arms around her. Her sobs finally quieted, and she had said, "I don't know what I would've done, Ron, if anything had happened to him." Ron had told her he felt the same. For a while, it had seemed that everything was okay again, that things were back to the way they had been. She had pushed up the sleeve of his Quidditch robes and traced the scars left on his forearm by the brains in the Department of Mysteries, and Ron was reminded of how they had always worried over their lives together, as a unit. Ron remembered first year, how they had concussed the troll together and how he had woken up and found Hermione bent over him on the chessboard and how he and Hermione had sat at Harry's bedside after he came back from his confrontation with Quirrell. He remembered how he and Harry had sat beside Hermione when she had been petrified in second year. In third year, he thought Sirius would kill Harry, and he had defiantly proclaimed that he would have to kill Ron first. Fourth year had been the worst, of course, when Harry disappeared. Fifth year, they had once again found themselves all thrown into danger. It was how they worked best: together. Hermione had apparently been thinking it, too, as she ran her cold fingers over the scars and said, "Tell me, what's been going on with you?"

They had sat down at Harry's bedside, eyes locked on their motionless friend, and Ron had told her about Harry's dreams, about Michael Corner, about the potion they had been brewing all semester, about everything. They hadn't looked at each other, but every now and again, Hermione had touched his shoulder.

"Harry has always had bad dreams, though, Ron," she had said.

"But not this bad. You haven't seen him, Hermione. He wakes up looking like he's been dueling all night, pale and angry and sweaty. It's downright scary. Sometimes," Ron had paused, swallowing hard, "he doesn't even recognize me."

"Oh, I'm sorry Ron," she had said in a very small voice. "I didn't know."

"Well," Ron had said without malice, every emotion drained out of him in the ebb of his overwhelming fear, "how could you?"

"I know," she had admitted softly. "I haven't exactly been around lately."

"I hope it's, you know, worth it or whatever," Ron had said, and Hermione's arm had dropped from his shoulder. She hadn't said a word, and they had watched Harry's expressionless face for a while as the sunlight shifted and began to fade. The torches had flared, and finally she had stood.

"I'll think about the dreams, Ron. Maybe there's a connection, maybe not. I'll let you know, though. Are you going to stay for a while?"

Ron had nodded.

"Should I bring you something from dinner?"

Ron had shaken his head.

"Don't worry too much. Madam Pomfrey expects a full recovery."

"Bye then."

"Bye." Ron had imagined she had paused at the door, looking back at him, as there was a moment between her footsteps stopping and the groan of the door opening.

But that had been a while ago, and in Hermione's absence, Ron's thoughts had wandered, and he felt guilty and angry. Where had Dumbledore been? In third year when Harry had fallen off his broom during the Hufflepuff match, Dumbledore had slowed Harry's fall, saving his life. If he had been there, he could have prevented the whole thing. Why hadn't anyone else done the same thing? Why hadn't Ron? He knew Wingardium Leviosa as well as the next person.

The door swished softly opened, and Ron, expecting Hermione, spun around in his chair to ask her what her thoughts were on the subject of their neglectful headmaster. But instead of Hermione standing there, it was Pansy. Her eyes were on him, but after a split-second she smoothed her hand over her hair and moved into the room. Each one of her footsteps seemed to echo in the still infirmary, but that could have been the heavy falls of her clunky boots. She was wearing a thick black turtleneck jumper, and in the crook of her arm she carried a book. Ron watched her approach, assuming for some dumb reason that she was there to see him. When she reached the aisle in front of Harry's bed, however, she turned on her heel and settled in a chair beside Draco's bed.

Ron snorted. "Figures."

"Pardon?" Pansy snapped, her tone slightly defensive.

"Figures you'd be here to see him," Ron said, returning his attention to Harry.

"What? Did you think I came here to see you?" The spine of the book snapped as she opened it.

"It's really quite pathetic," Ron said irritably.

"Yes, you are." The chair legs moaned as they were pushed across the floor.

"I meant the way you can't get over him."

"Ha! I could say the same for you and Potter."

"Harry is my best mate! And your stupid ex-boyfriend nearly killed him!"

"It was your moronic Beater that caused this whole thing, Weasley."

"If Malfoy hadn't been tailing him so close, Harry would have seen that big lug before he smashed him."

"You know, Goyle might have suffered permanent damage from that blow to the head."

"I don't think it would make any difference, actually."

"That is rude and uncalled for."

"Your entire house is full of foul fuckwits, Parkinson. Admit it, why don't you?"

"You are such a child."

"I'm not the one mourning my lost love."

"That's what it looks like to me."

"Fuck off, Parkinson."

"I'm here to read, actually, since the Head Girl saw fit to cancel prefect rounds this evening in the face of the tragedy."

"Are books banned in the Slytherin common room? Sure would explain a lot."

"You're so funny. I'm curious, though. Do Gryffindors even know what books look like?"

"Of course we know what books look like. You might have heard of 101 Ways to Beat Slytherin at Just About Everything? We wrote that one."

"Ah, yes. And the instant classic, Help! I've Lost My Brain!"

"Not to be confused with, You Might Be Evil If..., which I'm told is a perennial hit with dungeon-dwellers."

"Call us evil all you want. Evildoers can repent. Jackasses are stupid for eternity."

"Yeah, but ugly stays."

"Ouch, that really hurt. Are you going to tell me my parents don't love me now?"

"Actually, I was referring to Malfoy with that one, but while we're on the subject, I'm sure they don't. Might explain why you fell for the ferret to begin with."

"He is rather pointy, isn't he?"

"No to mention deathly pale and blonde."

"What's wrong with blonde?"

"Makes him look like a girl."

"Have you been checking out my ex-boyfriend, Weasley?"

"No, that's what Zabini said when Malfoy was going down on him."

"I'm surprised it fit inside that pretty little mouth."

"Oh, not a problem. It's really rather small, I've heard."

"And I suppose you're the expert on the matter?"

"I know what I know."

"And you know the relative size of Blaise Zabini's penis?"

"Just guessing. Any bloke who spends that much time on his hair is definitely compensating for something. Besides, he has his eyebrows done."

"Manscaping is proof neither of homosexuality nor having a small prick."

"Whatever. Live in denial."

Pansy's book shut with a gentle clap. After a moment of feeling her eyes on him, Ron met them with his own. Pansy held his gaze for a second, and then shook her head slightly.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Pansy said as she rose. When she reached the edge of Draco's bed, she sat down on it and fixed Ron with a searching look. Her eyes flicked over Harry's form, and then, as if deciding something, she bridged the gap across the aisle between the beds of the opposing Seekers, taking a chair beside Ron.

"What are you doing?" Ron asked softly as Pansy settled into the chair, crossed her legs one over the other beside him, and opened her book.

"The light's better over here," she said as she began to read.

"Oh," Ron said. He watched her foot bob nervously near his knee. Then, after a moment, "I could get you a candle."

The corner of Pansy's mouth quirked slightly. "No thanks. I'm fine." She turned the page.

"Suit yourself," Ron said, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his attention back to Harry. He slid down in the chair until his thigh came into contact with Pansy's foot, bouncing at the end of her leg. After a moment, it stilled. "So, I guess this means we're talking again?"

"Don't get cocky," Pansy said, turning a page. "I'm here. You're here. Companionable silence and what not."

Ron grinned. "Sure thing, Parkinson."

In the rising moonlight, Ron watched Harry, and Pansy read her book.

The Eighth of November: Hogsmeade Weekend

It was just Pansy's luck to have snow on her birthday. But it was the first snowfall--the best one--which had been a threat on the wind for a week, and the world smelled of sharp edges with hints of the winter to come, and so there was some delight in it, having the wait finally over.

It sifted down into the streets of Hogsmeade in big, fat, lazy arcs, sticking to the rooftops and the tops of signs, collecting in the sills of the shop windows and in the corners of doors opening and closing for the constant parade of Hogwarts students. Pansy made her way through the swirl of snow and the sea of students with her head half-bowed, letting the wind whip the edges of her scarf around her legs as she set her feet down carefully in the slushy new snow. She let it melt where it landed on the tops of her cheeks and the part in her hair.

She was making her way to Madam Puddifoot's with no other intention than to have a very large, very strong coffee, chocolate in flavour and sweet in comforting heat. She wanted to wrap her mittened hands (pale pink mohair, arrived that morning with matching scarf from her grandmum Viola, who, though quite possibly the most evil woman on the planet, had excellent taste in accessories) around the hot mug, sit with her back to the window, and begin reading the new Oola Charming novel she had bought at Red Coat's Bookshoppe with some of the birthday money her parents had sent.

Despite the snow, it really was fortunate timing to have her eighteenth birthday fall on a Hogsmeade weekend. Her first stop had been Gladrags, where she had bought a winter's worth of knickers, which was undeniably a good thing. The benches in the Potions classroom were sure to reach temperatures in the single digits the following week, and she suffered enough in Snape's presence without a frostbitten arse.

The bell on the door of Madam Puddifoot's announced her entry. Pansy scanned the crowd as she stomped her feet lightly on the mat and shook the snow off her cloak and hair. There was, predictably, the ever-present hormonally driven contingent of Ravenclaws, a few random and embarrassed-looking Hufflepuffs (Pansy winked at Ernie Macmillan, there with Padma Patil, knowing how it would unhinge him), and a Gryffindor or two, whom Pansy couldn't be bothered to acknowledge. There were no Slytherins there, which was lucky. She had overheard Blaise and Daphne arranging a group to go to the Three Broomsticks, which was the destination point of many of the students trekking to the village that day.

Which made Madam Puddifoot's an ideal location for Pansy to enjoy her birthday by herself. Misery, in Pansy's case, did not like company. Pansy's misery liked solitude of the type that allowed her to fantasize about the sinister and painful ends of those whom had directly or indirectly caused said misery.

She approached the counter, ordered her favorite coffee (triple skinny Honeydukes Special, splash of cream, lots of froth) and a slice of chocolate cherry truffle cake, and was laying her gold down when the bell announced the arrival of the next customer. Pansy turned to see whom it was, naturally, her mug warm in her hand.

She inhaled a steadying breath of chocolate coffee steam.

He looked... pink. Well, pinker than usual. She wondered if it was from the cold or from embarrassment. Hell, she'd be embarrassed if a particularly bright-eyed and shiny Hannah Abbott had dragged her into this loathsome place. Hannah's hair was tied into an immaculately high blonde ponytail with a crimson ribbon that matched her cowl-necked jumper. She was wearing jeans that fit perfectly, highlighting the curve of her lean hips and her slim thighs. Of course, the denim was last season's shade and the crimson of her sweater had enough of a blue hue to make her look sickly. And with her hair pulled up like that, it really showcased how crooked her little ears were. However, she appeared to be wearing Ron's jacket, as he stood, arm entwined with hers, in only his hooded sweatshirt with the unraveling cuffs, flaming red hair sticking out from under his earflap beanie.

Pansy quickly quelled whatever jealousy she may or may not have felt. It was an ugly jacket, anyway. Probably second-hand, at best. Not to mention, of course, that she was much too smart to go out on a day when it was snowing without a cloak. It wasn't as if the snow had snuck up on them. Perhaps Hannah would have been guilty of such a petty, girlish ruse as forgetting her jacket only to get into Ron's... that is, if it wasn't Hannah freaking Abbott. She was as wily as bread. Oh no! I'm hiding in the breadbox, exactly where I'm supposed to be! Pansy thought sarcastically. If she didn't pity Hannah for her dullness, she would have very likely hated her.

The bell tinkled again, and coming in after them, shaking the snow from her floppy blue hat, was Susan Bones. Pansy snapped out of her daze, taking a sip of coffee. Really, who wears floppy hats anymore?

"Hello, Pansy!" Hannah said brightly as they walked into the small teashop.

Pansy had the distinct impression that they had probably laughed the entire way through the village, as they were all grinning stupidly and Hannah seemed a touch out of breath. "Hey," Pansy said, somewhat coldly, turning her back and making her way over to the corner booth.

Hannah, Ron, and Susan sat down at a table in the middle of the shop. Ron pulled out their chairs. When he pulled off his beanie, his hair stuck up in funny places, and Hannah giggled before reaching across the table and attempting to pat it down. Ron ducked his head and ran his hand through it several times before shrugging and tucking his beanie into his back pocket. Madam Puddifoot took their order, and then the three of them leaned close together over the table in whispers. Hannah glanced up, caught Pansy staring, and so Pansy quickly withdrew Oola Charming: Charmed and Dangerous. After a moment, Pansy looked up again to find Hannah standing next to her booth, looking rather too polite.

"Yes?" Pansy asked.

"We were wondering if maybe you'd like to join us," Hannah said.

Pansy looked at Ron, who was turned in his seat watching the exchange. Their eyes caught for a minute.

"I know you're friends with Ron, and you look a bit lonely over here all by yourself," Hannah continued. "You don't have to move, even. We could squeeze into the booth."

"What about your tea?" Pansy asked. Ron was now deep in thought of his shoelaces, apparently.

"Oh, she'll bring it over," Hannah said happily, waving at Ron and Susan before sliding into the booth opposite Pansy. "I'm so glad it's Hogsmeade weekend. Any more time in the castle, and I think I would have gone mad."

Pansy laughed at the sheer ridiculous notion of Hannah Abbott, Queen of all things Dull and Dreary, doing anything nearly as interesting as going mad. "It must get awfully boring down in the kitchens," Pansy said, taking off her mittens and laying them down on top of her book, which she pushed off to the side. She made room in her side of the booth for Susan, who was untangling her arms from her cloak.

"Are those new mittens? They're lovely," Hannah said as Ron slid down beside her. "Don't you think so, Ron? They look very warm."

"Er, yeah," Ron said. He colored slightly, just at the tips of his ears.

"Yes, they are quite warm, thanks." Pansy took a sip of her coffee. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second as she basked in the wonderful chocolate coffee heat. She could smell him, even across the table and through the coffee steam. Chocolate. Autumn leaves. Snow.

"I've been looking for new mittens. Gladrags?" Susan asked.

Madam Puddifoot set down the tea tray.

Pansy's eyes danced around the table. "I don't know. They were a gift from my grandmum," Pansy admitted as Madam Puddifoot poured three cups and handed them around.

"Thanks," Hannah said to Madam Puddifoot with a bright smile.

"What's the occasion? Birthday? Christmas? Just because?" Susan interrogated.

Pansy took a very slow drink of her coffee and looked at Ron from under her lashes. Say goodbye to Plotting in Peace, she told herself. "Birthday," Pansy said finally, licking froth from her upper lip.

Ron took a sip of tea, which was apparently too hot, because he jumped, slopping some into his lap in the process, which caused him to leap and tip his cup so that his tea ran halfway down his sleeve. His eyes caught Pansy's as he touched two fingers to the inside of his lip, half-standing in the booth, utterly drenched in Earl Grey.

"Oh!" Hannah squealed, handing a sizable stack of paper napkins to Ron. Several heads turned to look. "Happy birthday!"

"I didn't know it was your birthday," Ron mumbled, blotting his crotch with the stack of napkins.

"Why would you?" Pansy replied. She poked at her cake with the tines of her fork.

"We should do something grand! I do love a birthday!" Hannah said, more or less to herself, as she prepared her tea.

"You mean, like how you embarrassed Eloise so much in the Three Broomsticks that it took three of us to get her face out from behind Witch Weekly?" Susan laughed. "She nearly died of embarrassment, Han."

"You could have said something," Ron said with a disgusted sneer as he tucked a wad of tea-sopped napkins under the corner of the tray.

"It's not important," Pansy said dismissively.

"We should get a cake and some candles and get everyone to sing--oh, you already have the cake--but candles! We need candles. I'm sure Madam Puddifoot has candles we could use." Hannah turned in her seat and rose halfway out of the booth to look over the top of it back towards the counter. Her hip bumped Ron's, and Ron sat back down.

Under the table, his foot slid along hers. Pansy primly stabbed at her cake, raising a dainty bite to her lips. She stopped as it touched her lips, and then turned her fork to Ron, as if offering him the bite. His ears turned a bit pinker, and he shook his head slightly. "Too bad," she said, licking off a ripple of chocolate icing before shoving the piece in her mouth.

"Hannah, I don't think--" Susan began, glancing between Ron and Pansy with a curious look.

Hannah sat down heavily in her seat. "I can't get her attention. Oh, well." She stirred her tea, smiling at Pansy in that way that old friends do. "So, do you have any plans for the afternoon?"

"I was off to Lanky Lizards next. Thought I'd pick up the new Weird Sister's album," Pansy said between alternating sips of coffee, bites of cake, and glances at Ron. He was positively flushed. But then, he had just spilled hot tea on his privates.

"I've heard very good things about it," Hannah said.

"Doesn't what's-his-name, the other guitar player, doesn't he have a solo project or something?" Susan asked.

"The Beastly Boys," Ron and Pansy said in unison.

"That's the one," Susan said, drinking her tea.

"I've wanted that for ages, you know, but you just can't find it. I checked in Diagon Alley before term, but nothing," Pansy said. She loved Heathcote Barbary. He had a voice that could melt stone and played guitar like it was the muscle through which his blood pumped.

"Bill saw him play in Paris. Said it was brilliant," Ron said.

"Oh, I bet it was. Could you imagine? I was nearly comatose at the Yule Ball, and that was before Heavenly Creatures came out."

"That was really something, wasn't it?" Susan said.

"God, I love that album."

"Does that have the song with that line about mistakes in the dark?" Hannah interjected.

"Mistakes in the dark have gotten us where we are," Pansy quoted.

"Brilliant," Susan said.

"Yeah," Ron agreed.

They sipped their tea and coffee and enjoyed a moment's silence.

"So," Hannah said, "are you going home for the hols?"

It took a moment for Pansy to realize Hannah was talking to her. "Oh, yeah," she said, and then, after a pause, "You?"

"I think so. My mum misses me terribly when I'm away." Hannah poured herself another cup of tea, and Pansy took this opportunity to roll her eyes. "Susan and I are going to get together for New Year though, with the other seventh years."

"We are going to make an event of it," Susan affirmed.

"Ron?" Pansy asked curiously.

"Harry and Ginny and I are going to the Burrow. All my brothers will be home. It will be the first time in ages."

"That's nice," Pansy said, hiding a grin behind her mug. "Cozy."

"Get stuffed, Parkinson," Ron said, but he was smiling a bit, too.

"Hermione's not joining you, then?"

Hannah coughed uncomfortably.

"No. What business is it of yours, anyway?"

Pansy shrugged. "Just seems a shame to break up the mighty trio of Goodness and Courage. Never know what nasty things might come around at Christmas. Rabid reindeer. Homicidal elves. Murderous mistletoe."

"Are you excited about the rematch next week?" Susan asked Ron before he could respond to Pansy.

Ron set down his cup and growled deep in his throat. "The one loophole in all the rules, and we had to get snagged in it."

"It's a disaster," Hannah said soothingly.

"You'd think they would have noticed something like that," Ron said. "A game can't go on forever with both Seekers knocked out, for starters, and when one of them is the Captain, it's not like the Captains can have a meeting to decide what to do."

"Draco's going to be right pissed off when he comes to, you realize," Pansy said. "Madam Hooch can't make those sorts of decisions for him."

"Yeah, but--"

"We have to go to classes, and what's the point of playing, anyway, without Seekers?" Hannah reasoned.

"Yeah, but--"

"The point is that Draco is the Captain. It's his responsibility as Captain to make these sorts of decisions. Throwing Teeny Nott in as Seeker is a disaster. Even with Potter out, we haven't a snowball's chance in hell. A stiff wind will blow her right off her broom," Pansy railed.

"Yeah, but--"

"Professor Snape made that decision, not Madam Hooch. So when Draco wakes up, he can take that up with your Head of House," Susan said.

"Does anyone care what I have to say?" Ron tried feebly.

"Snape doesn't know a Quaffle from his arse," Pansy snorted. "If I was Captain, I'd be furious."

"You should have been on the reserve team, then." Susan swirled her tea and raised an eyebrow at Pansy.

"Yes, Ron?" Hannah intoned sweetly.

"It's all just so ridiculous," Pansy said in closing, turning to Ron.

"Oh, is it my turn?" he said bitterly.

"Spit it out, Weasley," Pansy said, finishing her coffee. "There are music shops to carouse about in."

"I was just going to say that we'd have beaten you anyway, regardless." He pulled his beanie out of his back pocket and jammed it on his head. "So you can just relax about the whole thing, Parkinson. Doesn't change a thing for Slytherin."

"Whatever, Weasley. You're just gloating because even with Ginny as Seeker you still have the best Chaser line-up in the school," Pansy spat, pulling her pink mittens on and shoving her novel deep into the pocket of her wool cloak.

"Hang on. Did you just admit that we're better than you?"

"Your earflaps are on too tight. I did nothing of the sort. It's ludicrous to even suggest that I would concede such a thing."

"That's what it sounded like to me," Susan said, grinning at Hannah, who grinned back.

"Well, you know what they say about Hufflepuffs..." Pansy trailed off, opening the door of Madam Puddifoot's and stepping out into the brisk November air, two Hufflepuffs and a Gryffindor at her side.

They walked to Lanky Lizards and looked around for a bit. Pansy separated herself from the group upon entering, heading straight to the counter and asking about the new Beastly Boys album, which, of course, they didn't have. She badgered the poor salesclerk for a while longer--he was in his late twenties, sporting several earrings and a Night of the Centaurs tee shirt--until she got bored of it and went off to see what else she could find. Hannah and Susan were tucked into listening booths in the far corner of the store. She found Ron in the third aisle, lazily flipping through a rack of old Hecate albums. She stopped just behind him, looking over his shoulder.

"Oh, that one's rubbish. Don't get that one," Pansy said. "Their early stuff is really the best, anyway." She was not less than half on inch away from him.

"The only people who ever say that," Ron said, "are the people who are pretending to have taste." His elbow, when he flipped back to the beginning of the row, brushed Pansy's cloak.

"Doesn't mean it's not true. Anything they've put out in the past decade has been hopelessly commercial. I mean, that song on the WWN this summer was utter shite." Pansy moved so that she was standing more or less beside him.

Ron nodded. "True, but still. You sound like a snooty git." He shifted his weight so that their arms were touching.

"Well," Pansy said, grinning and rocking into Ron, "what else are we going to talk about? We're in a music shop, after all."

"We could talk about the weather," Ron said. He turned his head just slightly at the same moment that Pansy looked up. "Fucking cold out, it is."

"You could always steal your jacket back from Hannah," Pansy suggested helpfully, with only the trace of an evil grin.

"She's not that bad," Ron said.

"For a doormat," Pansy added.

"We've got rounds tonight, haven't we?" Ron asked, changing the subject.

"Six bloody hours. Luckily for you, I am not a doormat and have plenty of interesting conversation to keep us awake. Some of it even entails the weather," Pansy said, smirking up at him.

* * *

Rounds were almost actually fun that night. Pansy, true to her word, had loads of things to talk about. It was as if she had been saving up her conversations for the past two weeks and now they were all just spilling out. She was trying to persuade Ron that he should read Oola Charming. To her credit, her arguments were a bit more convincing than Dean's.

"The sex," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "is hot."

Ron tried valiantly not to blush. "Oh really?"

"Yup," Pansy said. "Lots of pushing up against walls and in Muggle taxis and such. Fascinating. In the second book, she is contracted to kill a vampire. I know, I know," she said, "but it's just amazing. And she kills him, all right. But still, she's my role model."

"You want to shag vampires and kill people?" Ron asked curiously.

"Don't we all?" Pansy said, laughing. "When you think about it, though. The kind of strength it takes to do that sort of thing. That's something."

Ron wasn't sure if he considered randomly shagging people and killing them a characteristic that denoted strength, but he let it pass. "So, back to this hot sex business."

"Right, well," Pansy said, checking a classroom. They were taking their time, conversing and loping down the corridors. They had six hours, after all. "When you think about the dynamics of sex, it really is all about power, isn't it? Who's on top, who initiates, that sort of thing. And, I don't know, it's neat when it's the girl in charge, that's all. Role reversal, or what have you."

Ron noted that Pansy wasn't looking at him just as adamantly as he wasn't looking at her. He stuck his head into a dark classroom. "That sort of thing, er, turns you on, then?" He managed to say it without stuttering too much, for which he thought he ought to get some sort of medal.

There was a long pause. Ron came back out of the classroom, and Pansy was standing there with her hands on her hips, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I think it's probably more of a psychological thing maybe. What about you?" She looked him straight in the eye, and this time he did blush, furiously and to the roots of his hair.

"I d-don't know," Ron said, ducking his head and running a hand through his hair. "I guess I've never really thought about it." Well, he had, but people didn't just talk about these sorts of things, did they?

Pansy chuckled a bit. "Ever the Gryffindor. You probably believe in love at first sight and soul mates and all that, too, right?"

"Don't you?" Ron asked.

Pansy shrugged. "Not much anymore. I used to, when I was a girl. I think every girl believes she'll find her prince and live happily ever after. I think maybe part of growing up is in letting that go. Facing reality and what not."

"That's kind of sad," Ron said. He looked at Pansy thoughtfully. She looked a bit unguarded, and in that moment, he trusted that she was telling the truth, that she was actually sharing something important with him.

"Yeah, well." Pansy sighed, turning to walk slowly down the corridor. "Welcome to Pansy's World," she said, making an expressive sweeping gesture with her arm.

Ron laughed and fell into step beside her. "So, the Cannons might not finish last this year."

"I know!" Pansy said, perking up quite a bit. "Gudgeon nearly caught the Snitch last match!"

Ron laughed, and Pansy laughed. "Happy birthday, Parkinson," he said, patting her shoulder.

"Don't get mushy on me, Weasley," Pansy said, and Ron dropped his arm, still half-laughing. "Do you think Dorkins made the right move replacing Jinks as Keeper? I do. I always thought he was lousy. Well, lousier than the others, at any rate."

"Which is pretty bloody lousy," Ron admitted.

The rest of the night, they checked all of the classrooms and the corridors together in easy conversation. After all, they did have plenty of time.

The Fifteenth of November: Slytherin vs. Gryffindor, again

More snow fell, thick and insistent, oppressively covering the Quidditch Pitch and the occupants in the stands. Ron reached around every few minutes to push the blanket of snow off the tail of his broom, and then returned his eyes to the game.

So far the match had gone very well. Ginny flew high above, every now and again dipping down along the edge of the Pitch to scan for the Snitch. Forty-five minutes into it, though, and not even a glimpse. Meanwhile, his fingers were frozen despite his gloves, the back of his neck had gone numb, and every now and again, a spiky snowflake flew into his ear in a most intimate manner. He loved Quidditch, he really did, but right now, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in front of the Gryffindor fire with a big cup of hot cocoa and the Oola Charming book Dean had let him borrow. Good stuff, he thought, watching Jack score again (they were leading by twenty points, which was very good for not having Ginny in the mix), very "literary".

He easily blocked the Quaffle, passing it off to Alexander, who had wanted very badly to play last year, but had been passed over in favor of Jack. Alexander, whose dark hair fell into his face in thick, wet strands, beamed at Ron before returning to the field.

Ron looped around the hoops a few times, trying desperately to warm up.

Dennis and Colin, he had noted, were on their very best behavior this match, working in timed synchronization and not pulling off any of their riskier moves. Of course, Millicent Bulstrode, who had stepped up to fill in for Goyle, obviously scared the living daylights out of the two boys. Every time she came at them, wielding her bat, they scurried. So far, this had resulted in Slytherin making several Bludger returns that could have been theirs. He'd have to speak to Dennis and Colin about that later.

Ron sighed and watched his breath crystallize in the air before evaporating. Steam rose from the stands where the bleachers had warming charms and the audience had cocoa.

He was very bored. It was the most boring game in the history of Quidditch at Hogwarts. It was so boring, that even Ron, who liked Quidditch very much indeed, thought it was boring. He hated to think how the people in the stands were even staying awake.

He brushed the snow off the back of his broom again and tried to keep his eye on the game. Natalie stole the Quaffle and scored again. Alexander and Jack gave each other high-fives. Crabbe fired a Bludger straight at them, and the match resumed.

At least when it was Harry and Draco fighting over the Snitch, there was some guarantee that if the match wasn't exciting, at least the Snitch run would be. Teeny wasn't even making an effort to mark Ginny. She was too busy hunting the Snitch on her own.

Ron wondered if maybe he should call for a time out. Maybe he'd ask Colin for a joke while they huddled on the Pitch, and then tell everyone that if they didn't pick things up a bit, his arse was likely to freeze to his damn Cleansweep.

He pushed his soaking hair out of his eyes, and there, shimmering just at the bottom of the goal post, was the Snitch. He looked up quickly to find Ginny already diving for it, as was Teeny from the other side of the pitch, and there, coming full at him, was a flock of Chasers, red ball in green hands.

Intently, Ron watched the Chasers coming at him. The Slytherins had sloppy passing and flew in very predictable patterns--compared to the Gryffindor Chasers, at any rate. They were not hard to follow. As they approached, the Quaffle passed from left to right and to the middle, and Ron moved to protect his hoops. He had a feeling they were going to shoot to his left. It was an instinct he had quit second-guessing. He just knew where they were going to shoot, and most of the time, he was right.

The Quaffle moved up and to his right, and Ron waited for a second more for them to show their hand, then he moved to his right, marking the Chaser, who threw down to his left. Ron was quick, though, and had been expecting such a move, anyway. They had used it twice in the first game. He caught the Quaffle easily, curling it under his arm and against his hip, motioning with his other hand for Alexander and Jack to fly out to the left.

Their attention, however, had been diverted from their Captain by the loud crash at the base of the hoops. Ron passed the Quaffle off hurriedly to Natalie, who, in her very dedicated way, tucked it and headed back to the Slytherin hoops. And then he looked down.

Teeny Nott, it seemed, had pushed Ginny into the base of the hoops. Ginny was still on her broom, though, and, while her nose spurted blood copiously onto the white snow, was matching Teeny in reach for the Snitch, which was flying just ahead of them, turning from the hoops and making its way out onto the Pitch. Ron thought bitterly for a moment that the Snitch was probably cold as well and wanted to be caught so that it could return to its warm trunk tucked up in Hooch's office.

Teeny knocked into Ginny, who pushed back, whipping her head as she did so, splattering blood onto Teeny's brand new Quidditch robes. Ron laughed. What a Slytherin thing to do. Teeny let out a strangled cry and elbowed Ginny in the ribs. Ginny whacked the handle of Teeny's broom soundly with her own, causing Teeny to veer off course long enough for Ginny to put on a burst of speed and deftly catch the Snitch.

Nearly falling off her broom, Ginny rolled in the snow before getting to her feet. Ron landed beside her, happy for the game to be finally over. He was trying hard not to think about Harry up in the hospital wing as Ginny raised one arm in the air--the wings of the Snitch fluttering around her knuckles--and raised the other hand to pinch the bridge of her nose while she tilted her head back. In this position, Ron realized a second too late, she was especially vulnerable to sneak attacks by Slytherins.

He hadn't even seen it coming, but Teeny flew into Ginny with enough force to knock down any of the Weasleys, Charlie included. Ginny toppled, letting go of the Snitch with an "Ooomph!"

The rest of the Gryffindor team had landed in a wide circle around Ron. The rest of the Slytherins, Ron ascertained with a sweeping glance, were already returning to the changing rooms.

There was a scramble, and Teeny came out on top, straddling Ginny. She fumbled in her robes for her wand, but in that moment, Ginny, bloodied and looking murderous, reached out with both hands and grabbed handfuls of Teeny's hair and pulled.

"That has got to hurt," Colin remarked.

Teeny yowled, and Ginny pushed up with her hips, causing Teeny to go off balance. They rolled again, this time hands pulling at hair and fingers like claws turned on each other's faces. Teeny called Ginny something that even Ron could never repeat in mixed company, and then Ginny let fly a list of expletives that would have impressed even Fred and George.

"When did Ginny learn to fight like a girl?" Jack asked.

"Where the bloody hell is Madam Hooch?" Alexander asked simultaneously.

A whistle split the air, and Ron turned to see their esteemed referee, looking scandalized, storming through the snow toward the tumbling Seekers. "Miss Nott and Miss Weasley!"

"Oh, please, Madam Hooch? Just a bit longer?" Colin cried hopefully.

"It's just starting to get good!" Dennis whinged.

Ginny howled, sounding suddenly like an enraged rabbit of some sort. "YOU BIT ME!" she screamed. Another roll of the robes, red over green, and Ginny surfaced on top, promptly head butting her opponent, gloved hand still fisted in blonde hair.

Madam Hooch's hawk-like eyes narrowed on Colin and Dennis, whose eyes were glossed over oddly, cheeks pink. "You boys are funny in the head."

"I think Ginny's winning," Natalie said in awe.

And so it certainly seemed. Ginny had Teeny face down in the snow, both of Teeny's wrists pinned in the middle of her back in one hand, the other hand, still holding tightly in her hair, was pushing Teeny's face down in the snow. Teeny's muffled and indignant protests were punctuated by Ginny's laughter. "Like that snow in your face, Teeny? Does it taste good? Does it taste like DEFEAT?"

"MISS WEASLEY!"

Everyone stilled but Teeny, who wriggled out from under Ginny and stood, quickly smoothing her robes and wiping her face off with her gloved hands. Professor McGonagall stood in front of the two girls; hands on hips and looking the angriest Ron had ever seen her, the Bed Incident included. Professor Snape, at her side, looked equally as irate, only in a much more superior and bemused fashion.

"What in the name of all things holy do you think you are doing?"

Colin snickered nervously. Ginny slowly got to her feet, wiping her bloody nose the length of her sleeve with a sickening ssssslllrrrp. "She bit me, Professor."

"I should like to see you in my office at once, Miss Nott," Snape said.

"And Miss Weasley, if you'd please?"

Both of the professors waited for Teeny and Ginny to glare at each other one more time, and then Professor McGonagall took Ginny sharply by the elbow back to the castle, while Snape allowed Teeny to follow him dejectedly.

The rest of the Gryffindor team began to disperse, heading back to the changing room as the Creevey brothers replayed the entire scene in their high-pitched excitable chatter. The snow was disturbed and tinged pink where the two Seekers had been thrashing around in it.

"Now, that is what I call a Quidditch match."

Ron turned to find Pansy, in pink mittens and her green and silver Slytherin scarf, grinning from ear to ear. "Granted, that middle part was pretty fucking boring, but things sure did heat up at the end there."

"What just happened?" Ron asked accusingly.

"Well," Pansy said, pulling a mitten off and withdrawing a small, dark red capsule from her pocket, "your sister just pummeled little Miss Nott while the school looked on."

"Yes, that part I caught," Ron said, taking the capsule as Pansy handed it to him. It was squishy, and the stuff inside was red and sparkly, the exact color of blood.

"What the rest of the school didn't see, however, was the part where Ginny smashed them both into the hoops and broke this wonderful little capsule against her face. And if they didn't catch that, they more than likely missed the bit when Ginny revealed some very impertinent and private things about Teeny's home life, mostly concerning her brother, Teddy, whom I've never thought much of, personally, but who, it turns out, keeps a diary of sorts tucked under his mattress. You know, the things one will reveal when they think no one is bothering..." Pansy trailed off, pulling her mitten back on, a triumphant grin on her face.

"You set this whole thing up." Ron said. Of course.

"She did owe me one. And since snogging Draco was out, the next best thing, of course, was picking a fight with his girlfriend."

"You are pure evil," Ron said.

"Innit great?" Pansy said with a very large smile. "And here everyone thought I had lost my touch." She flipped her hair over her shoulder and grinned at him again. "It feels good, though. So very, very good."

"You could have cost Ginny her spot on the team," Ron intoned gravely.

"Oh, pish. McGonagall wants the Cup as bad as the rest of you. Worst she'll get is a week of detention," Pansy said airily.

"You are a horrible person," Ron said, but he was smiling.

"We had a deal, Weasley." Pansy took a step past him, heading back to the castle. "See you at six, then."

Ron watched her climb the hill back to the castle while the snow clung to his wet hair and collected in a very wet way on the back of his neck. Even if he lived for a thousand years, it was quite possible he would never cease to be surprised by Pansy Parkinson.

* * *

Pansy was having a bloody brilliant day. She was over the moon. She was downright cockahoop, as her Auntie Enid would say.

Teeny had gotten a week's detention with Snape and was whinging very loudly about it in the middle of the table while Pansy sat at the edge, humming to herself and taking much delight in her bangers and mash. She had even made up a little song about it. "La la la, Teeny is a bitch. La la la, Ginny got the Snitch. La la la, Teeny cannot Seek. La la la, now she's in it for a week."

She was still singing the song in her head, adding new verses about Teeny's black eye and swollen lip, while she waited for Ron in the Great Hall at six. She had on a new pair of pink satin knickers that were silky and soft, and when she walked up stairs or crossed her legs, she could feel the satin across her skin and it was just really very neat. She had dressed carefully after the Quidditch game in her favorite box-pleated skirt and a pair of black stockings that stopped very high up on her thigh. She just felt very neat. Very in control, very comfortable, very confident.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that she had seen, with her very own two eyes, Hannah Abbott snogging Seamus Finnegan under the Quidditch stands. Honest. Now there, Pansy had thought, is a very confused boy.

"La la la," Pansy sang softly.

Yes, today she felt neat. Sexy, even. She had, indirectly and untraceably, gotten Teeny bloodied, bruised, and in detention with Snape for a week. Life was good.

Ron came down the stairs, talking with Neville Longbottom. They were laughing in that easy way that the Gryffindors shared. Pansy had picked up on it at the DA meetings, and now it seemed she couldn't not notice it. It was so charmingly Gryffindor of them. It was cute. Like fluffy bunnies and flutterby bushes. Cute.

"La la la," Pansy sang some more as Neville went into the Great Hall and Ron approached her. "Hello," she said brightly. "How's old Nevvie, then?"

Ron looked over his shoulder and back at Pansy, slightly confused. "He's fine," he said apprehensively. "What's up with you?"

Pansy smiled wide. "Nothing. Just happy."

"Okay," Ron said skeptically, following Pansy as she bounded up the stairs.

"Why are you so down, then?" Pansy asked over her shoulder. "I figured you'd be in a good mood after you won and all."

Ron shrugged. "I was in the hospital wing. Not exactly a Happy Fun Place."

"Oh," Pansy said shortly. "Well, snap out of it. You're bringing me down."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Pardon me, Mistress Parkinson."

"There you go with that kinky stuff again," Pansy said, her eyes shining with laughter. "La la la," she sang.

"So I started reading one of those Oola Charming books," Ron said on the fourth floor, opening a door across the hallway.

"Yeah?" Pansy said with interest. "And?"

"Good stuff," Ron said. His ears were turning pink.

"What's your favorite part so far?" Pansy asked curiously. She was determined to have Weasley blush maroon by the time they were on the fifth floor.

"Well, I'm not very far yet, but there is this part with Ellsbeth Doom..." Ron trailed off.

Vermillion. "I don't remember that part," Pansy lied.

"You know, on the underground," Ron said quietly as a pair of Ravenclaws passed, "and they start you know so that they can hide from Warwick Snide."

Crimson. "Oh," Pansy said as if with dawning comprehension. She started up the side stairway to the next floor. "And Ellsbeth has the Key of Pirin down the front of her pants--"

"Because it wouldn't fit in her pocket," Ron finished. There it was: maroon.

They were climbing the steps in tandem, and Pansy grinned over at him and chuckled somewhat evilly. "My dear Mr. Weasley, I do believe that turned you on."

Ron ran his hand through his hair and looked down at the steps.

"You always do that when you're embarrassed, did you know?" Pansy said, moving toward him. "And it makes your hair a fright."

Ron dropped his hand from his head and stilled as Pansy moved against him. Her breasts brushed against his chest as she reached up on her tiptoes to tousle his hair back into place. His breath caught and she dropped her gaze to his eyes. She moved back on her heels, away from him, but she held his gaze.

"What?" she whispered.

"You did that on purpose," he said in a whisper.

"Did what?" she asked, innocently fluttering her eyelashes. She was sexy. She was neat. She was seducing Ron Weasley in the fourth floor stairwell.

"That thing," Ron said, his blush replaced now with a serious pallor, "you just did."

"This?" she asked, moving against him again. She stood on her tiptoes, winding her hand around his neck and threading her fingers through the thick hair at the nape of his neck. She pressed her body lightly against his, and her other hand touched lightly on his hip, slipping under his jumper, where his tee rode up to reveal smooth skin. "Is this what you meant?" Her voice was husky and sultry. Evil. Evil. Evil.

It took him exactly three seconds to react. His hands found the small of her back and pulled her to him as he bent down and pressed his mouth to hers. It was a strong kiss, a firm and fiery, very Gryffindor kiss, until his mouth opened against hers, and she slid her tongue softly against his bottom lip. Then he moaned, opening his mouth wider, and she slid her tongue against his. He moved into her with his hips, one of his hands cupping her bum and pulling her up before he ground against her again. He tasted like dinner and chocolate, with a very Ron taste under all of that.

After that, it was a very Slytherin kiss. Pansy pulled Ron's bottom lip between her teeth and tugged his hair, making him moan louder as their mouths separated, and Pansy licked his neck where his pulse beat. Ron gripped the back of her thigh, raising it to his hip, so that she was standing on one foot as he balanced them and ground into her again. He gasped before planting his mouth on hers as his hand roamed under her skirt. He kissed her fervently as his fingertips found the line of her stockings and stopped.

This time it was Pansy that moaned, and that was all the encouragement he needed. His fingertips brushed the skin on the back of her thigh between where her stockings stopped and her knickers began. Slowly, he traced the lace edge of her knickers, tentatively brushing up under them and moving lower.

"Is this all right?" Ron asked breathily, breaking the kiss and looking down at Pansy with hooded eyes. His fingertips rubbed small circles on the very inside of her thigh. He was so very close.

"Shhh," Pansy said, tilting her hips. Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth.

He touched his lips to hers as his fingers slowly followed the line where her thigh met her body.

"OH!"

"Er, hey Ron!"

Pansy and Ron flew apart as if they'd been hexed, and there, at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at them with very wide eyes, were Colin and Dennis Creevey.

Pansy smoothed her hair and readjusted her skirt while Ron coughed and tried to tug his jumper over the visible bulge in the front of his trousers.

"Hey," Ron croaked. "What's up?"

"Just thought you'd like to know that Goyle is awake," Colin informed them. Pansy didn't think it was possible, but it looked like the little shit was smirking. "We've been looking for you everywhere."

"Are you all right? You look a little flushed," Dennis said. Colin elbowed him sharply. "What? They do. It could be the flu."

"Oh no, Ron, not the flu!" Pansy mocked, putting her hand over her mouth. "Whatever will we do? Quick--call the Ministry! Call St. Mungo's! Call every Gryffindor on the planet!"

Ron gave her an annoyed look. "Thanks, then," Ron said to the younger Gryffindors dismissively. "We'll be down in a bit."

"Okay," Colin and Dennis said in unison, although they didn't move.

"You can go on ahead," Ron elaborated. " We've got to... you know. Prefect rounds and all."

"Oh," Colin said. "Okay. We'll go then."

"Yeah," Ron said.

"Come on, Dennis. Come on, Dennis! See you in a bit, then."

Pansy snickered. "Wow. Didn't know I'd have so much competition for your attention, Weasley. Fanboys? You work fast. Potter's only been out for a week--"

"Bag it, Parkinson," Ron said, his voice sharp with annoyance.

Pansy stilled. "What?"

"Just--don't. Not about Harry." Ron said, giving her a stern look.

"Oh, so you can snog me in the freaking stairwell just like that, but what? I can't talk about Harry fucking Potter with you?"

Ron took a step away from her. His face was paler now, no longer flushed, and it made his freckles stand out. "Yeah, that's right."

Pansy laughed. "Because I'm not part of your stupid Gryffindor club?"

Ron didn't say anything. His eyes flashed as they locked stares.

"Who do you have to screw to become a member, then? Apparently not you," she said bitterly.

Ron looked at her for a moment, his blue eyes penetrating and deep, before he turned, wordlessly, and started to descend the stairs. Pansy watched him take seven steps, and, feeling less confident that he was going to turn around and apologize, said, "I can't believe I let you touch me."

That did it. Ron turned one hundred and eighty degrees and looked at her. He cocked his head to one side. "You let me touch you? You were practically begging me for it, Parkinson."

"Oh," Pansy said, suddenly so angry she was seeing stars in a circle around Ron's face, "Oh, that's... fuck you, Weasley."

Ron scoffed. "You're such a Slytherin." He walked down the remaining steps and disappeared around the corner of the fourth floor.

Pansy stood there for a moment, immeasurably angry. And the worst part was, she couldn't decide if she was angrier with herself, or with Ron. Of course, it would have been a lot easier to sort out had it not been for the snogging. The snogging had been good. Very good. Her skin, the vile traitor, was tingly and dancing and calling, "Ron!" still, while her brain was a bit fuzzy and performing an odd little dance of its own. She thought back through that last conversation, mapping it, and she saw now where it had gone wrong. It had been Potter.

"Fucking Potter, anyhow," Pansy said, tucking her hair behind her ears and exhaling loudly.

For the first time, Ron had left her standing, alone, in his wake, and she felt a right fool. She certainly wasn't going to just go on about her rounds alone, anyhow. And going after him would only be worse.

She turned in a circle where she stood, trying to decide what to do. And then decided that it would be best not to decide. And so she sat down in order to collect herself.

"And it had been such a good day," she said wryly.

After a moment during which no collection of any sort took place, she pulled out Charmed and Dangerous and turned to where she had left off after breakfast.

Oola Charming had always known Auror X had a power to be reckoned with. Yet, she had never been able to put her finger on it during their years of mutual enmity. Now that they were working together, she noted that it was the way he rolled his shoulders as he entered the Room of Gods like a lazy cat confidently stalking his prey that sent little sparks of fire up her spine. This man had power and he knew how to use it, and therein did lay the danger...