Pariah

Chapter Ten

How the Weasleys Stole Christmas

Where war and wrack and wonder

By shifts sojourned there,

And bliss by turns with blunder

In that land's lot had share.

from "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight"

Ron sat in the chair next to Harry's bed, twisting the edge of the blanket in his hands. Goyle had recovered over a month ago, having stumbled out of the hospital wing and into the arms of Millicent Bulstrode, which was a very touching scene, indeed, and had been the talk of the school for several days after. Malfoy had come round just this past Tuesday, screaming himself awake, drenched with sweat, and supposedly blind for at least four hours, clutching onto the first thing available which happened to be, by a strange twist of fate, Pansy Parkinson. Pomfrey had him calmed sufficiently to administer a draught of Restore-A-Sight after a while, although of course, the great git was still parading down the halls as if he had survived the Killing Curse and was everybody's hero, Pansy back at his side. But at least he had quit threatening legal action against the school, Gryffindor House, and the Creevey brothers in specific. Ron figured that had to count for something.

Yet, it was the twelfth of December, and Harry had been out cold for nigh on six weeks. There had been minor improvements. He was apparently conscious; just not quite out of it yet. He responded to stimuli finally: he'd twitch his foot when his sole was pricked with a pin, and he had gripped Ginny's hand so strong, it had bruised. But he still wasn't awake yet. Still not quite Harry.

"Come on, Harry," Ron groaned, giving the blanket an extra sharp twist. "It's like you're not even trying." He was leaving for the Burrow that afternoon, and it would have been Ron's Christmas wish to take Harry home with him.

"Ron?" a soft voice at the door called.

Ron stood slowly, smoothing Harry's rumpled blanket back over the corner of the bed. Ron touched Harry's hand where it lay above the covers, the faint silver scars spelling out, 'I must not tell lies' in Harry's scrawl. Ron saw them only because he knew where to look.

"Ron, the carriages are leaving soon, and you haven't even packed yet."

"It seems so wrong," Ron said, looking up into his sister's eyes. "We haven't had a Christmas apart since I came to Hogwarts."

"Do you want to stay?" Ginny asked tenderly. She rested her hand on Ron's shoulder.

Ron thought about it. A part of him really did want to stay, hopeful that Harry would wake up. Yet, he wanted to see his family as well. Charlie and Bill were both going to be there, as well as the twins. The only person absent would be Percy, of course. He was invited. He just never showed up.

"I'm sure we'll know if anything changes," Ginny said gently.

Ron nodded. It was true. Whether through the Order or Dumbledore himself, someone would surely let the Weasleys know. "Okay," Ron said after a minute. "But we should send his gifts to Hogwarts, just in case."

"Sure," Ginny said, grinning slightly. "And just think, it'll be just the Weasleys this year."

Ron grinned, though he couldn't help but feel that not even that could account for how he'd miss Harry on Christmas day.

* * *

The train from Hogsmeade to London rolled through the snowy countryside at its usual pace, yet Pansy felt somehow that the ride was taking much longer than by any right it should have.

For the first hour, she had sat in the compartment with Draco and the others, alternately watching Draco's face as he slept and the snow falling to the ground like tiny broken fairies. When Draco had awakened in the hospital wing, Pansy had been inadvertently at his side, having wandered over to him while Ron spoke at Harry after rounds on Tuesday night. He had sat up, screaming like a banshee. His flailing hands had latched onto Pansy's robes and pulled her down to him. She had tried to pry her robes from his fists, and when that didn't work, she had tried to soothe him with her voice, telling him to calm down, that everything would be okay and other nonsense, and smoothing his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead.

Even after Madam Pomfrey had stormed in, he had insisted that Pansy stay. Even after Professor Snape had arrived at his bedside, he wouldn't let her go. So she had sat up half the night with him while he drank down the purple glasses of Restore-A-Sight, and he told her about what he had seen in his dreams.

"It was terrible, Pansy," he whispered through dry lips. "It was like I was the only thing that existed."

And Pansy knew that this was Draco telling her that he had been afraid, that he had always been afraid, and that what he feared was being alone. So she had tipped the glass to his lips and kissed his forehead gently, not the act of a lover, but of a friend, a mother.

After his sight was restored, he had looked up to her with troubled gray eyes, and he had gathered her to him, pulling her down so that their bodies fit snugly side-by-side in the small hospital cot. She had tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his grip surprisingly firm for being comatose as long as he had been. And he whispered into her hair a word of thanks, and Pansy watched the shadows on the wall while his breath slowed and her breathing adjusted to its rhythm.

She hadn't slept that night at all, and for the rest of the week, Draco had been seeking her out more and more, sitting next to her in the common room while they worked over Arithmancy problems and at meals while they discussed their Charms and Defense lessons. They always adopted hushed, intimate tones, and Pansy didn't know exactly why, except that Draco was the one who always started whispering first.

Of course, this pissed Teeny right off. She was so mad at Draco, in fact, that at this very minute she was in a compartment down the hall, whining to her friends. Pansy could hear her. She had heard her all week. She watched Draco for another moment as he slept, arms crossed securely over his chest, cloak pulled tightly around him. Crabbe and Goyle were thumbing through huge stacks of Chocolate Frog cards, and Blaise, Daphne, and Millicent were whispering about Teddy and Morag having disappeared.

She thought it strange that not very long ago, she had been at odds with her house, and then, just like that, she was right back in the thick of things. She hadn't spoken more than three words to any of her dorm mates since September, and then that morning while they packed, Daphne had asked her what her thoughts were on summer versus autumn weddings. Pansy had voiced her opinions regarding what blooms would be in season and what honeymoon destinations would be more fashionable, although she highly doubted Blaise had any intention to marry her, and Morag and Millicent had both given her long-suffering looks, and it was just as if there had never been any tension between them at all.

It was just like things had been, back when her and Draco had been together and her life had been comfortably predictable and everyone had always done what they should, what was expected of them, and what they somehow thought they were socially contracted to do. Back then, Ron was the Weasel, Harry was Potty, and no one even knew Ginny's first name. Back then, her grades weren't slipping and she would have never given a second thought to the war that had been somebody else's. Back then, she was the type of girl capable of dating Draco Malfoy, of being friends with Daphne Greengrass, of not wanting to throw up every time Blaise's eyes searched her face.

Suddenly, it became very important for Pansy to get the hell out of there.

She stood quickly, startling the others in the cabin.

"Where are you going, Pansy?" Daphne asked curiously.

"To the lavatory," Pansy answered a little too quickly.

Blaise quirked his eyebrow at her as she fled the compartment, letting the door slam shut behind her. Pausing, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath before opening the door that led into the next car.

And walked right into Ron Weasley.

"Oh. Hey," Ron said. His fingers stayed on her shoulder for a second more than was necessary for her to catch her balance.

"Hello," Pansy said.

Things had been awkward between them since the Great Stairwell Snogging incident of several weeks ago which had never been spoken of again.

"I was just going--" Ron started.

"Me too," Pansy said hastily.

They stared at each other for a moment. Pansy felt the familiar rush of heat that being in Ron's presence brought, but it was almost immediately doused with the ice that the sheer impossibility of their relationship produced. It was a sobering realization that Pansy had made in that stairwell weeks ago, but the truth was, any sort of thing between her and Ron could never happen. Her house hated his house. His house hated hers. The only time they ever found together was during prefect rounds and Hogsmeade weekends, which were generally too public and woefully too far between, respectively. And the entire situation smacked of wrongness.

Not to mention, of course, that he was none too pleased by the turn of events her relationship with Draco had taken, and she had yet to forgive him for being such a prat when it came to all things Potter.

They were just too different, and although it had never been spoken of between them, she knew now, when she looked into his blue eyes, that he knew it too.

They looked at each other for a quiet moment that seemed to exist outside of time, and then Ron said, "Excuse me," and Pansy moved out of his way, and then, just like that, it was over.

* * *

When Ron and Ginny stepped off the Hogwarts Express at King's Cross station, Charlie, Bill, Fred, and George were all waiting for them, a tight group of red heads leaning against the far wall. Bill picked Ginny up, swinging her around twice while she demanded to be put down and he laughed. Charlie came over and gave Ron a one-armed brotherly hug while Fred and George snickered at the lot of them.

"Does ickle Ronniekins want a kiss from his big brothers?"

"I bet ickle Ronniekins wants a lolly, doesn't he?"

"Shove off," Ron said, although he was grinning. "So, what's the agenda then?"

"Well, we'd thought we'd mill about Diagon Alley for the afternoon, and then Mum and Dad are meeting us at the Leaky Cauldron for dinner. And then I guess it's to the Burrow," Charlie explained at length, taking Pig's cage out of Ron's hands.

"Sound all right, Princess Ginny?" Bill said. He and Ginny were holding hands, and he swung them between them until Ron was sure her arm would pop out of the socket.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," Ginny said, although she was grinning, too.

"What would you like to be called then, princess?" Bill inquired.

"Just Ginny."

"All right, just little Ginny," Bill said, letting go of her hand and cuffing her lightly on the shoulder.

Ginny cuffed him back. "I'm not that little anymore, Bill."

"Pshaw," Bill said, taking Ginny's trunk. "You'll always be little to the rest of us."

"Bugger," Ginny said.

For a second, Ron was sure she was talking to Bill, but then he saw that her eyes were fixed to an indeterminate spot just behind his left shoulder. He turned, and there was Pansy Parkinson again.

He swore that girl popped up at the most inopportune moments.

"Happy Christmas, Ron," Pansy said, giving him a little nod.

Ron blushed a bit (though not too much in front of his brothers). "You, too. Happy Christmas."

She stood there for another minute, as her eyes swept over his brothers standing behind and around them. "Right, well, I'll be seeing you, then," she said briskly, turning on her heel and walking through the barrier.

Ron turned around and met his brothers' curious looks. "What?" he said, blushing furiously now and raking his free hand through his hair.

"Now, that was a bird," Bill said with a low whistle.

"What happened to Hermione?" Charlie asked curiously.

"Oh, they broke up ages ago," Fred said with a wave of his hand, marching through them to lead the way to the barrier.

"You need to be fast to keep up with all of Ron's girls," George said, giving Ron a wink before throwing his arm casually around his younger brother's shoulders.

"Is that a fact?" Charlie asked, amused.

"Oh, please." Ginny rolled her eyes and walked faster to catch up with Fred. "It's just that Parkinson girl from Slytherin."

"Slytherin, Ron?" Bill said, half-turning. "I'm impressed. I really am."

"Gotta watch out for those Slytherin girls," Charlie said sagely. "Unpredictable, that lot."

"Tell me about it," Ron muttered, hauling his trunk out into Muggle London.

* * *

Pansy loved Christmas. Pansy loved Christmas and carols and the smell of pine and of baking. She loved wrapping paper and the way the candles on the tree burned all night. Every night of the Christmas holidays, she stayed up late in the drawing room, curled into a ball on the sofa, reading, or painting her nails while listening to the WWN, or studying for NEWTs by the light of the decorated tree. Or just sitting, swirling the cocoa in her cup and thinking, dreaming, planning.

On Christmas day, Pansy woke up in the late morning to the smell of coffee and pancakes. The sun streamed through her bedroom windows, landing in a large white square that was half on her bed, half on the floor. Everything in her bedroom was pink, and for the most part, frilly. High up on a shelf were her dolls and in a corner stood her dollhouse on a small table with small chairs that she and the Patil twins used to drink tea at while their mothers planned charity events for St. Mungo's downstairs. There were posters everywhere of the Weird Sisters that she had put up the summer before third year, and tucked into the frame of her vanity's mirror was an assortment of snapshots spanning her eighteen years to date. Her favorite was a picture taken on Platform 9 ¾ the last day of first year. In it, Millie, Morag, Daphne, and Pansy stood, arms linked and grinning, in front of the scarlet steam engine. The inscription on the back read, in Pansy's girlish, loopy handwriting: Millie, Aggie, Daph, and Pans: Best Friends Forever! They looked so unbelievably young in it, with chubby faces and braided hair.

Pansy stretched in her bed, reaching her toes down practically to the end of the mattress where the sheets were cold. In childhood play, her bed, with it's pink frilly canopy and duvet to match, was her tower. She'd sit on the edge and sigh, dreaming of the prince that was to come and rescue her.

She mused that never once did that prince have red hair. He was almost always blonde, which just went to show what little girls know.

"Pansy!" her mother yelled up the stairs. "Come and eat. Your cousins and grandmother will be here in an hour!"

Pansy groaned and threw the blankets back over her head. Correction: she loved Christmas, right up to that part when the relatives showed up.

"Pansy!" This time her father's deep voice boomed up the stairs. "Get a hop on, girl!"

"But they're evil!" Pansy screamed back down.

"That's no reason to miss breakfast," her mother hollered from somewhere near the base of the stairs.

"Your mother manages to keep her appetite in spite of it all," her father reasoned. "And besides, they're only spending the day."

Pansy let out a very loud, defeated growl. She swung her legs off the side of the bed, threw on her dressing gown, and padded out onto the landing in her bare feet. "Fine. Just as long as there's coffee," she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Lots of coffee. There's a girl," her father beamed.

"Better enjoy the house while it's serene," her mother said darkly, alluding to the arrival of her in-laws. Pansy's father then reached out to pinch her bum. "John!"

"Please, I'm hardly even awake, and my appetite is fragile as it is." Pansy slowly descended the stairs. As she walked between them, they parted, her father patting her head and her mother handing her a cup of summoned coffee.

"I'm having a smoke," Pansy's mother announced, spinning on her heel and marching to the parlor.

Pansy and her father exchanged looks. Claudia Parkinson only smoked when she was extremely stressed. It was, ironically enough, the only time she ever cleaned, too. And sure enough, as Pansy walked into the kitchen to take her breakfast standing at the counter like she usually did, she could see the fruits of her mother's labors. Every surface had been scrubbed until it was gleaming, every nook divested of its dust, every cranny glittering and free of debris.

"She painted, didn't she?" Pansy said, noting the cabinets, which had been cornflower blue the day before but which were now a deep cranberry shade. Pansy stuffed a huge bite of pancake into her mouth and watched her father refill his coffee cup. It was strange, but she could swear her parents were getting old on her. Her mother had developed lines around her mouth, and her father was getting wisps of gray in his hair.

"She thought the red to be more festive," John replied shortly. He leaned against the counter opposite and opened the Daily Prophet.

"Well, it's silly," Pansy said.

John Parkinson merely huffed in agreement and turned to the letters page.

Pansy quickly ate her pancakes. She couldn't wholly understand why her mother always tried to impress her mother-in-law. For starters, Viola Parkinson had never liked her daughter-in-law Claudia. It wasn't an outspoken, apparent hatred, but a festering, sour disapproval. It was the way she turned up her nose at whatever Claudia would cook, say, or wear. Her eyebrow was perpetually cocked during her visits at the Parkinson house on the outskirts of Exeter. She did not approve of city dwelling, which she had been sure to tell her son. She ran her thin fingers, papery skin stretched tight over brittle bones, over every surface in the house looking for dust, and often finding it. She had raised such a fit when Pansy had been sent to Muggle school with the Patil twins that Claudia had finally relented, quitting her job on the local hospital board, and taught her at home. Indeed, Claudia and Viola had not had a civil word to speak of the other since.

When Pansy was a girl, she had favored her Grandmother Viola, who had often taken her on shopping trips in London, despite her mother's protests. She had a huge house out in the country, full of strange ornaments and assorted treasures. She had horses in the stables and would let Pansy run wild during the summers she spent there when she was very young. Behind the stables, there was a pond in which Pansy's cousins had taught her to swim and catch bullfrogs by the legs. After she turned eight, however, things started to change at Grandmother Viola's.

Pansy was the only granddaughter on her father's side. Her father's younger brother, Matthew, had three sons, Marcus, Basil, and Clayton. But all of those grandsons weren't enough for Viola. During the summer that Pansy learned the art of parlor chat and sitting still, Viola would ask her pointed questions about her mother. Did she intend to give Pansy a little brother anytime soon? Did she fully intend to go back to work after Pansy started at Hogwarts? What provisions was she making socially for Pansy?

At eight years old, Pansy hadn't quite understood what was going on. All she knew was that she had to wear pointy shoes, cross her legs, and put on huge frilly robes every afternoon. Tea with her grandmother became something of an occasion for Pansy for several years. Once or twice a month, Viola would show up to take Pansy out, and Pansy would put on her thick white tights, her shiny black shoes that clicked out songs on the hardwood floors, and any one of the pink robes her grandmother had bought for her. Pansy could still remember coming downstairs on those late mornings, her heart light and her smile wide, to find her mother and her grandmother glaring daggers at each other across the formal dining room. Viola never took refreshment in the kitchen, after all, and Claudia saw rare occasion to use the formal dining room.

When she was ten, it became obvious to Pansy that her grandmother was intent on her liking pink. Everything that arrived from her was pink. Pink robes, pink wool cloaks, pink dolls, a pink toy tea set, pink perfumed stationery.

And then she started telling Pansy about the Malfoys.

"They are one of the oldest families in England," Viola had whispered over tea in the lobby of The Weatherwax Hotel in Diagon Alley. "The Malfoy boy is in your year. I expect you will be meeting him."

Pansy had nodded, adding another lump of sugar to her tea. "I would be delighted," she had said, rehearsing the "pleasant talk" her grandmother had taught her.

"Of course, he'll be in Slytherin," Viola said breezily. "They've all been."

Pansy had again nodded. "Please Grandmother, why isn't he going to Durmstrang?" All of Pansy's cousins had gone to Durmstrang. She assumed that's where the boys went.

"It's rude to ask such personal questions, Pansy," Viola had said, her tongue now a barb. "Straighten up. Shoulders back. Slouching is ill-mannered."

It was perhaps around that time that Pansy learned her grandmother not only intended Pansy to like pink, but also intended Pansy to be a lady. But it wasn't until fourth year and the Yule Ball when Pansy learned that Grandmother Viola also intended to make herself a grandson out of Draco Malfoy. Of course, after that things had gone dramatically downhill between Pansy and her grandmother.

There are several things that fifteen-year-old girls never need to hear said of them. Most of these things, Grandmother Viola had said to Pansy that next summer.

"Well, you're certainly not pretty, and you could stand to lose some weight."

"It's just as well you aren't in Ravenclaw. I imagine you haven't the brains. Slytherin really is the best place for a girl of your aspirations."

"You must do whatever Draco Malfoy asks, girl, to win his affection. Men don't make wives of girls who are smarter, or stronger, or bolder."

It was about that time that Pansy decided that her Grandmother Viola was full of shit. Of course, she still accepted the fancy clothes and the sparkly trinkets she sent. She wasn't stupid.

And so Pansy dressed quickly but carefully on Christmas, putting on black tights, her best black velvet dress robes, and her pointiest, shiniest heels. She arranged her hair carefully, pinning it back in the fashionable ways she had seen in Witch Weekly, and, turning her wand on her hair, charmed it into gentle cascading curls. Of course, it was almost too short to look neat, but it would do. Just as she was reaching for the knob, she heard the commotion start on the floor below.

"Oh, Enid, such a pleasure!"

Pansy took a deep breath and checked herself in the mirror on the back of the door one more time.

"John, you look fit!"

She stepped onto the landing, feeling every pinch of her shoes.

"Claudia, I love that color on you, you know!"

She took the handrail and began to slowly descend the stairs.

"Boys! Boys! But my, aren't you all so tall!"

She stepped onto the oak floor in the hall, spying her cousins for the first time in probably four years. They really were tall, taller than her father even.

And finally, the voice Pansy had been dreading.

"Where's the girl, then?" Grandmother Viola demanded, elbowing her way through her grandsons.

Pansy stood very still, arranging her expression into one of haughty politeness. "I am here, Grandmother." Her tone was aloof and proper.

Grandmother Viola at that moment came out from around Pansy's mother. She was dressed tip to toe in dark silver, her chin tilted up. Even at her age, she stood at her full height.

Pansy straightened further on impulse.

Grandmother Viola stopped just short of embracing her granddaughter. She raised a finger to her lips and looked Pansy up and down before motioning for Pansy to turn around.

Pansy did so, stepping slowly in a small circle and holding Grandmother Viola's stare once she was finished. Her hair was white, cut in a severe bob, but her hazel eyes--the same shade as Pansy's--were still as sharp as ever as she examined Pansy, seeking out faults.

"You'll make a fine woman," she said, almost begrudgingly, "yet your countenance still leaves something to be desired. You can't hide a face like that behind red lipstick. No wonder the Malfoy boy left you."

Pansy felt her blood run red-hot. She shifted her gaze from her grandmother to her mother. She was aware that the entire family had witnessed the exchange.

"Eggnog anyone?" Pansy's mother said loudly. "John's been rather liberal with the whisky this year."

* * *

Ron was in bed, listening to the sounds of the Burrow coming to life. It was late afternoon, by the slant of the light coming through his windows, and he took a moment to be horrorstruck that he had slept so late.

Of course, all of the Weasley children had stayed up until dawn, playing Exploding Snap for money until they had each lost and won and borrowed and loaned enough that they were all even in the end. They had eaten all of the biscuits in the house, had drank all of the red currant rum Bill had brought for Christmas dinner, and had broken into their father's shed sometime around three in the morning. It was a little hazy after that, but he did remember pissing in the snow and laughing as Fred, George, and Ginny packed the kitchen windowsills with snow. Charlie and Bill had begun singing a lewd song about mistletoe and fairy lights, and Ron had thrown up in the garden. At some point, he had fallen asleep in his bed with his boots still on.

Somewhere, someone was making an awful lot of noise.

Ron slowly sat up, wiping the corners of his mouth on his cloak. Apparently, he hadn't gotten that off either.

"Ronald Weasley! Get down here this instant!"

Even through several floors, his mother's scream had a terrifying effect on him. He bolted out of bed (against his better judgment and in direct opposition to what he tended to think about the laws of gravity when hungover) and yanked open the door. "Coming!" he yelled, hoarsely. "Coming!" he repeated, running down the stairs. He ran through a list of things he could have possibly done when he was drunk to account for the tone of voice his mother was using, but he was sure he would have remembered anything involving piracy, arson, or bloodshed.

When he arrived in the kitchen, his mother was leaning against the kitchen countertop with her arms crossed, wooden spoon in one hand, wand in the other. Every member of the household was assembled, sitting around the kitchen table in mismatched chairs. And in the center of the table was Mrs. Weasley's Christmas pudding.

Or rather, what had been Mrs. Weasley's Christmas pudding. What should have been Mrs. Weasley's Christmas pudding. What, up until last night and as recently as Ron could remember, had in fact been Mrs. Weasley's Christmas pudding.

Ron looked from the empty pudding basin to his mother's expression and then sat down quickly in the chair that Charlie had pulled out for him. Ron glanced surreptitiously at his father, who actually winked at him. Raising his head slightly, Ron looked around at all of his brothers and Ginny, none of whom seemed the least bit concerned.

"Er... what's going on?" Ron asked curiously, turning back to look at his mother.

"Some person, or persons, rather, because surely no one person could have eaten that entire pudding by his or herself without getting sick--"

"Or dead," Fred added.

"At least comatose," George suggested.

"You are on thin ice as it is, boys," Molly said, shaking her wooden spoon at them.

Fred and George snickered and went back to staring at the table.

"At any rate, the Christmas pudding is missing, and you are all going to sit here and think about what you've done until someone confesses!"

"It's like being eight again, isn't it?" Bill whispered loudly to Charlie.

Everyone at the table chuckled.

"And don't think I'm not serious! No presents, no cocoa, no crackers, no turkey until the pudding is found! I swear, I never had this much trouble with Percy!" she snapped, turning back to the sink to finish up what must have been the breakfast dishes.

"She's quite right you know," said a voice from the door.

Ron felt the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end as he turned slowly in his chair to look at where Percy stood, holding Mrs. Weasley's Christmas pudding, his horn-rimmed glasses slightly crooked on his nose.

There was a tangible silence in the room for a moment, before Arthur said softly, "Happy Christmas, Molly," and then everyone started talking at once.

* * *

Of course, in the history of Christmases, Pansy knew, logically, that this couldn't be the worst. It was statistically impossible, after all, that of all the families over all of the years in all the places in all the world, that this occasion right here, right now, would rank as the worst Christmas ever. Still, it gave Pansy pause to wonder.

She sat in one of the brocade chairs by the fire, her back straight and not touching the chair. Her legs were crossed daintily at the ankles, and her hands folded neatly in her lap cradling the empty tumbler that had held her heavily spiced eggnog. It had, in fact, held her first, second, third, and fourth glass of eggnog. Her father was in a very generous mood at Christmas, and Pansy was milking it for all it was worth over the long hours spent in the parlor listening to her relatives drone on and on and on.

First, Uncle Matthew had gone on and on about his employ with the Ministry for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, having been recently promoted from the Spirit Division to the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau, upon which he received a hefty bonus and made several of his peers redundant in the process. He was very important and he wondered how on earth his department had ever gotten on without him, blah blah blah, and Enid had been asked to head the Wife's Committee for widows of dragon attacks, and wasn't it all just ever so fascinating?

Then Grandmother Viola had implored Marcus to tell them all about his job at Gringott's, which was as droll and boring as one could reasonably expect, except for the portion of his story when he told about the new dragon feeder being eaten. Basil, of course, supplied that he was employed as a buyer for Obscurus books, which didn't much hold Grandmother Viola's interest, and so the conversation turned to Clayton, who had just taken up with the marketing firm Miss Leed & Mister Meen. This was marginally more entertaining for Grandmother Viola (or maybe Pansy had consumed enough eggnog by that point to make it seem so), who owned stock in Esther Louder Cosmetics, one of the firms top clients, and with good reason, too. Esther Louder had cornered the market on anti-aging potions long ago, and by the way Grandmother Viola's skin was taut around her eyes, Pansy would have bet the gold in her Christmas box that Grandmother Viola was single-handedly keeping Ms. Louder in Cliodna brand robes.

Pansy sighed a small sigh and took the last sip of her eggnog. She caught her mother's eye and pointedly looked at the door.

"Oh, my, is that the time? You must excuse Pansy and I. The goose curry awaits!" She rose quickly, and Pansy followed suit, smiling at her grandmother as she did so.

"Don't suppose you need any help?" Auntie Enid said, rising as well. "I make a wicked curry."

"Oh, the more the merrier," Claudia said. She opened the door and ushered out Pansy, nearly at a run, then Enid, smiling slyly.

Once in the kitchen, Pansy kicked off her shoes and jumped up on the countertop, where she cracked open a sizable box of chocolates, offering them in turn to both her mother and aunt. It was the same every year: the three of them always snuck out of the parlor and into the kitchen, where they were sure Grandmother Viola would never follow. She didn't hold with kitchens, she professed.

"That woman," Claudia said under her breath as she opened the window a few inches before lighting a Muggle cigarette with her wand.

"You should have seen the look on Clayton's face when we told him we were picking her up on the way over, poor boy nearly shat himself. Have us a puff on the fag there, lovey," she spoke fast, taking the cigarette from Claudia. "Gods, I love me a good fag in the winter."

Pansy popped another chocolate in her mouth and swung her legs, letting her heels softly bounce off the bottom cabinet doors.

"If you scuff that paint, there'll be hell to pay," Claudia said, cigarette tucked between her lips as she opened the cabinet above the icebox.

"I do love what you've done with it. Very contemporary, very warm. Oh, yes, there we are then," Enid said as Claudia pulled down a huge bottle of red currant rum. Enid got three tumblers out of the cabinet, and, at the look she got from Claudia, said indignantly, "Marcus was drinking firewhisky in his father's lap, you know, and he turned out just fine."

Claudia gave her another look.

"Well, relatively, at least. Let's have us a toast here, then. Pour it up, lovey, let's have an occasion like. Young one's all astart and twitching in her knickers here." And Pansy remembered why she loved Auntie Enid. Outside of Grandmother Viola's company, Enid was brash and loud, approaching vulgar, even, at times.

Claudia relented and poured three glasses half-full of the red liquor. The color matched that of the cabinets, and Pansy giggled. She was half-pissed and it wasn't even pudding time.

"Well, here's to Christmas with the Parkinsons. Let it never be said that the women of this family didn't get on," Enid said with a wink, raising her glass in a toast.

"Hear! Hear!" Pansy and her mother said as they clinked glasses.

Pansy took a slow sip of her rum, Enid knocked hers back in one go, and Claudia took a tall drink, followed by a long drag off her cigarette.

"What shits me," Enid began in her none-so-dulcet tones, "is how she can be so bloody obvious with her favoritism, and then such a bleeding hypocrite at that. All the boys knows she likes Pansy best, but then see how she treats the lass? Like a common wotsit. It's not right. Just plain not right."

"John and I have talked about it. He says she shows her love how she knows best," Claudia said, checking her volume.

"Oh, that's horseshit, and you know it," Enid said. "The woman's a bitter old broad with a hole in her heart the size of Wiltshire."

Claudia nodded. "Her sons adore her, though. That much is obvious."

"Bugger that," Enid said softly.

"At least she hasn't started in much on the Malfoy boy yet," Claudia said, giving Enid a knowing look and finishing her drink. She rubbed out the last of the cigarette in the sink and quickly banished it to the rubbish bin.

"Thank bloody hell," Pansy said darkly, finishing her drink and sliding down off the cabinet. Her robes caught slightly on the drawer pulls, and she fumbled to untangle them.

"Well, the day's still young," Enid said dryly, "but Matt brought damn near a cellar full of wine with him for the occasion."

"Thank bloody hell," Claudia said, mimicking her daughter as she patted Pansy's hair softly. "Get out the mortar and pestle, dear. Let's do the curry right."

* * *

Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, Charlie, and Bill sat on and around the couch, looking at Percy, who sat in a rocking chair across the room, next to the Christmas tree. The only sound in the room was the creaking and clacking of the rocker against the wood floor.

"Maybe he's flat broke," George whispered to Fred.

"Doesn't explain why he'd come here," Fred whispered back, "seeing how Dad's so poor and all."

Silence again, and Ron nudged Ginny. The two youngest sat on the floor in front of the couch with their legs crossed, knees touching. Ginny had her elbow propped on her knee and her chin in her palm. She had that look about her like she was taking Percy apart piece by piece, trying to figure out how he worked and what had finally brought him home.

Ron looked over his shoulder at Charlie, Bill, Fred, and George, who were crowded on the sofa, freckled arms draped around each other and heads inclined. Everyone knew that Fred and George had a special connection as twins, but what a lot of people failed to realize, and what Ron had forgotten in their absence, was that Charlie and Bill shared a similar bond. Their heads were nearly touching as they stared at Percy in the same fashion that Ginny was. Ron marveled at it, and for a minute, he saw the pattern in his family, how it had always been Charlie and Bill, Fred and George, Ron and Ginny, and somewhere apart from it all had been Percy. Putting it in that perspective seemed to make a lot of sense. Percy just didn't fit. He wasn't really one of them. For the first time in his life, Ron actually felt sorry for him, prat that he was.

Finally, it was Ginny who addressed their estranged brother. "You know you've got three years of jumpers under the tree."

The rocker stopped. "I know."

"You nearly broke Mum's heart," Bill said.

"I know."

"Waltzing back in here like this doesn't make things all better," Charlie said.

"I know."

"And you were wrong about Dumbledore," Fred said.

"I know."

"Wrong about nearly everything, actually," George said.

"I know."

A pause, while everyone waited for Ron to say his peace. Ron looked at the hard faces of Ginny, Charlie, and Bill, and at the deadly serious looks of Fred and George. Then he looked at Percy, the outcast, with his glasses and his new robes, looking so out of place here, in his home, where everyone shared and no one ever had anything new. Finally, Ron cleared his throat.

"You're the biggest git in the world sometimes, Perc," Ron said slowly.

"I know."

"And you really did deserve everything we ever did to you," Ron continued.

Percy shifted in his chair. "Possibly."

"And you've done some really stupid things that we'll probably never understand."

Percy nodded and turned his gaze to the floor, but Ron was aware that all of the rest of his siblings were looking at him now.

"But I reckon you're a Weasley, and that has to count for something."

Percy looked up.

"But if you ever leave like that again, I'll bloody well kill you, and I don't think I'll be digging the grave alone." The edge in Ron's voice surprised even himself. One of his brothers patted his shoulder, and Ron added, "And I think you owe all of us, and Harry, a big apology."

* * *

Auntie Enid really did make a wicked curry; wicked in that she left all of the pounding and grinding to Pansy and Claudia while she wielded several chopping blocks and several very large, very sharp knives through the air to see to the preparation of the various ingredients, including one very well-marinated goose.

Of course, making curry with magic wasn't, technically speaking, traditional. "The trick is," Claudia huffed, giving one final pound to the mixture of spices before adding them to the bowl of goose Enid had prepared, "to do it very quickly and while decently besotted so as to not think much on the evils you visit upon curry as tradition."

And with that, Claudia rolled up the sleeves of her cashmere jumper, a cue for both Enid and Pansy to step back. "At some point in your life, Pansy, I will teach you all there is to know about cheating in the kitchen."

Pansy rolled her eyes as Enid topped off her glass of rum.

"Rosemary potatoes and sautéed green beans," Enid said, poking at a dish in the oven. "Claudia, you cheat. You got this from the restaurant around the corner, didn't you?"

Claudia smiled and Pansy gaped. "I do detest cooking," Claudia admitted with a sly grin, doing something strange with the cauldron. (Claudia insisted on cooking her curry in a cauldron, mainly owing to the fact that her curries tended to eat through most cooking ware.) "And that restaurant is fabulous. Besides, Viola will never know. I have better things to do than spend three days cooking, thanks."

"A remark about house-elves would be uncouth right about now, wouldn't it?" Enid said, spearing a green bean on a fork and tasting it.

"They are filthy things. For all her talk of purity, you'd think she'd be a bit more particular about who makes her food, wouldn't you?"

"Here we go," Aunty Enid said, rolling her eyes. "Your mother and her so-called socially progressive Pureblood politics."

"It has nothing to do with that," Claudia said, tasting the curry off a large wooden spoon. "I just don't see the point of having servants you'd need to follow around with antibacterial charms."

"What was that term you were using years ago? Hematologically disadvantaged?" Enid asked with a sly grin, offering Pansy a bite of green bean.

"Yeah, that never really caught on," Claudia said while she did something to the curry. "The point is, Pansy dear, your Grandmother Viola is a terrifying woman of great contradictions."

"This I know," Pansy said, rolling her eyes again. She seemed to do a lot of that when she was tipsy. The green beans were quite good.

"So, what really happened between you and the Malfoy boy? I bet he still fancies your pants off," Enid said conspiratorially.

"Enid, really," Claudia huffed, leaning against the counter and lighting another cigarette.

"What? I want to know."

"Maybe Pansy doesn't want to tell."

"You have to admit you're curious. And Pansy knows we keep no secrets in the kitchen, don't you, lovey?"

Pansy shrugged with one shoulder. She didn't really have any qualms about telling them about Draco.

"Pansy's business is her business, and she is entitled to keep it that way."

It could have been the alcohol, or the fact that she had decided sometime during the course of the dreadfully boring morning that she'd rather be touched on the shoulder by Ron Weasley than have her brains fucked out in the dungeons by Draco Malfoy, but at the moment, sex with Draco didn't seem like such a big deal. It was almost like being initiated into a club: Here is a story about me, a boy, and our love. We are not so very all alone.

"Oh, don't take the high road, Claudia. Admit it, you're dying to know," Enid said, and then turned back to Pansy. "Is it true that he's so inbred he can't, you know?" She crooked her pinky finger and waggled it at Pansy.

Claudia made a disapproving noise, but Pansy only laughed softly. "Not entirely," she said.

"Oh, really?" Enid said, dark eyes dancing. "I've always wondered if he'd turn out like his father in that regard."

"Enid, come now," Claudia said. "You don't know that for sure."

"I've heard those Ministry women talk. Acid tongues, the lot of them. But every rumor has it's start in a small truth," Enid said. She leaned closer to Pansy and whispered, "So, how was it?"

"I do not want to hear this," Claudia said, getting the bottle of red rum down from the cabinet again.

"Well," Pansy said, trying to form a coherent thought. It was amazing how alcohol hindered that. "It wasn't bad, per se." Pansy stopped. It was true. Draco wasn't bad in bed. He just wasn't... It, whatever It was. Pansy didn't know, but she thought she'd know when she found It, and she hadn't found It in Draco.

"Gentle? Forceful? Did you get yours, at least?" Enid inquired.

"I can not believe we are having this conversation," Claudia intoned from around the bottle of rum, which she had taken to drinking from directly.

"You're the one who put her on the pill," Enid said.

"Not as permission," Claudia insisted.

"I'm right here, you know," Pansy said nastily.

"And?" Enid prompted. "Details! We want details!"

"No, we do not."

"He did this thing," Pansy said thoughtfully, grinning, happy to be the center of attention, taking a sip of the rum when her aunt passed it to her, "with his tongue that always made me lose my mind."

Enid giggled and Claudia made a strange whimpering noise, like a hurt animal, which only served to egg Pansy on.

"And he was absolutely entranced with my breasts," Pansy said, brow furrowing. "It was bothersome, at times."

"Draco's a tittie man," Enid giggled.

"I would have guessed as much. Have you seen all the work Narcissa has had done?" Claudia shuddered and took the bottle from Pansy.

Pansy looked at her mum slyly, and then said, "And he loved to tie me up on Professor Snape's desk."

"Pansy Margaret, that's enough," Claudia said. "Don't be perverse."

"He didn't really?" Enid said, eyes wide.

"No, not really," Pansy admitted with a sigh. "Although that would make for a very interesting story, wouldn't it?"

"Ladies? How's it going in there?" Pansy's dad's voice outside the kitchen door made them all jump and sent a jolt of ice to Pansy's insides. Claudia quickly banished the smoke from her cigarette out the window while Enid scrambled to get the bottle put away. Pansy, meanwhile, poured a cup of coffee and attempted to get her shoes back on. "We're wondering when dinner will be ready. That curry smells delicious."

"In a minute, dear!" Claudia called in falsely bright tones.

"We should've snuck out the back door when we had the chance," Enid muttered, straightening her robes and smoothing her hair in her reflection on the back of one of the copper pots hanging from the rack over the island.

"We'll wait in the dining room for you to bring it out, then, shall we?"

"Yes. Wonderful. Excellent. Exactly," Claudia called again, hastily putting the different courses into serving dishes, shoving the curry at Pansy.

"Right. Now put on your Parkinson faces, dearies, and be atrociously mild," Enid said, taking the turkey from Claudia.

It didn't surprise Pansy that she knew exactly what her aunt meant.

* * *

Around the table in the Weasley kitchen, the plates were passed clockwise as Arthur carved the turkey, laying a generous portion on the side of each plate, leaving ample room for all the potatoes, vegetables, and other dishes that Molly had prepared. It wasn't an elaborate meal, but it was abundant.

Ron sat between Charlie and Ginny, watching Percy at the end of the table, where he sat closest their mother, speaking in low tones. Every now and again, she would smile warmly or pat his cheek with a look of pride. The Weasley siblings were all giving Percy surreptitious glances as they chattered and ate their meal.

After everyone had been treated to seconds and even thirds, they all sat back from their plates, full and smiling. Ginny belched softly into her hand, and Charlie rubbed his stomach thoughtfully. Ron ran the edge of his fork around his plate, mixing the remains of his meal with a spot of forgotten gravy. Several sighs and the last scrapings of forks and clinking of cups, and then Arthur's voice cut through the air.

"Molly?"

Ron's eyes looked up to where his mum sat at the end of the table, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the edge of one of the red linen napkins that they only ever used on very special occasions. Somewhat startled, Ron looked across at Bill and mouthed, "What's going on?" in response to which the eldest Weasley child merely shrugged. All of the children exchanged similar looks, wondering what was the matter, what had possibly gone wrong.

"I was just thinking," Molly said at length, sniffling softly, "about the Christmas when I was pregnant with Ginny."

Ron felt his brow furrow. He had never heard of this Christmas before, and by the expression Ginny wore, neither had she. He had heard of the Christmas Fred and George ate all of the fairy lights and had to be rushed to St. Mungo's, and the year Bill and Charlie accidentally knocked the tree into the fire, and even about the year Molly was pregnant with Bill and they were still living in their cramped London flat. Ron searched his memory, but the Christmas Molly referred to now didn't ring a bell for him at all.

"Was that the Christmas our uncles came?" Charlie said slowly.

"Ah, Gideon and Fabian," Arthur said, rising from the table and going to the highest cabinet and getting down a dusty bottle of firewhisky.

"Isn't it strange," Molly said in reverent tones, "how it was always Gideon and Fabian, never Fabian and Gideon? Like Bill and Charlie, Fred and George, Ron and Ginny."

The respectful silence grew as little teacups appeared in front of all of them, and Arthur began to walk around, tipping out a bit of the amber liquid into each cup. "I remember how happy you were when Healer Winthrow said it was going to be a girl." As he said this, he poured a splash of liquor into Ginny's cup, letting his hand rest on her head for a moment before he moved on to Ron.

"Of course, they just showed up, they always did," she said with a smile. "They never owled ahead, those two. One day you'd just open up the door, and there'd they be, hair tousled and grinning from ear to ear." She took a sip of her firewhisky and shuddered mildly. "You two are the very image of them," she said, pointing at Fred and George. "Everyone used to say so. Not that you looked like them, really, not at all, it was just the way you carried yourselves, even as tiny boys."

"Mum, you'll make George blush," Fred said, grinning at his twin.

"I don't know why," Molly went on, ignoring Fred, "but it's always stuck with me, that last Christmas." She took another drink from her cup. It was chipped on the rim, and its pattern of pink roses faded into the ivory background. "They sat up all night with you two, Bill and Charlie, telling you stories long after the other boys had fallen asleep. You were curled up on the floor by the tree, and I remember thinking you were too old for it, but you listened, the both of you. Percy woke up at one point and pulled some of the afghans off the couch to wrap the twins up. They slept in the presents, sucking their thumbs like they always did. You were so protective of them when you were small, Percy."

"I remember that," Bill said. "I remember Uncle Gideon telling me about the pharaohs of Egypt, how they took out their hearts and buried them in the sand. I thought he was having one over on me, but I didn't say anything."

"And Uncle Fabian told me that the veins of dragons were lined with gold, which he was having me over on," Charlie said, chuckling fondly.

"And your father fell asleep in the middle of it all, his mouth open and his glasses off, in the rocking chair with little Ronnie curled up on his chest."

This time it was Ron's turn to blush, and he did so, taking another sip of his firewhisky. He remembered to act like he'd never had the stuff before, so he was careful to drink it casually.

"I looked at all my boys that night," Molly said, her voice breaking as she began to sob softly, "and I thought how lucky I was, to have so many perfect little angels in my life." She ran the back of her hand across her cheeks, before pressing it to her lips to stifle a strong sob.

Every one of her sobs was a stab at Ron's heart, and they shook him thoroughly.

"And I remember looking at you all, with your rosy cheeks, and especially Ron, who was cutting teeth and absolutely impossible nine-tenths of the time, and I just felt so, so," she paused, as if searching out the right word before saying, with a weak smile, "lucky."

She was crying freely now. Percy was patting her on one shoulder, and Arthur had moved from beside the fireplace, where he had stood, one arm draped over the mantel, to pat the other.

"And when I heard about Gideon and Fabian--that was the day we picked out Ginny's name--I stumbled, and you caught me Bill, do you remember? It was the day before you went back to Hogwarts. And it's been on my mind ever since You-Know-Who came back. If no one could have saved my brothers, who would save my boys?"

Ron felt suddenly very sick. Ginny's cold hand reached across the few inches that separated them at the table and twined her fingers with his. Her face was streaked with tears, and her shoulders were shaking. Even Bill's eyes were shining, and any hint of laughter was gone from the twins. Beside him, Charlie put his elbows up on the table, on either side of his plate, and ran his hands through his hair, palms stopping to cradle temples as he looked down into his lap.

"And Lucius Malfoy is out, and they never found that Lestrange woman, and I don't know what I would do if it was any of you that, that--"

"Molly, hush," Arthur said softly, pulling her into his arms. She sobbed harshly into the place where his neck met his shoulder, and Ginny squeezed Ron's fingers.

"It's different this time," George said softly but firmly.

"We've got the jump on them this time," Fred assured.

"The Ministry is doing everything in their power--" Percy began.

"And we've got each other," Charlie said strongly, head pulling up finally. His hair was sticking up all over his head, but there was fierceness in his face.

"He's right, Mum," Bill said, catching on, "and we'd fight like hell before any of those bastards got their hands on a single one of us."

"I'd kill everyone of them before they laid hands on a Weasley," Ginny said, her tone full of calm hate. Every ginger head in the room turned to look at her. "Over my dead body."

"And they'd have to get through me first," Ron said icily.

"And when I heard what You-Know-Who had done to the Potters, I gathered all of you to me, all of my little ones, and I just held you and thanked god--" her voice was cut off by another sob, and she turned back to Arthur's shoulder as her body rocked with the force of her crying. Over her head, Arthur made a shooing motion with one of his hands while the other moved slow circles on her back.

Ron thought about Harry, then. Harry, who had never known a proper family Christmas apart from the ones with Ron. Harry, who, at that very moment, was conked out in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, missing what was turning out to be the most interesting Weasley Christmas yet. Harry, who had never known the love Ron knew. And damn Ron's bastard heart for at that moment feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly lucky.

Percy stood first, but instead of leaving the kitchen, he wrapped his arms around their mum. Then the twins rose and did the same, and then Charlie and Bill and finally Ron and Ginny, until they were one tight knot of Weasleys, huddled around their mother as her sobs subsided and she began to laugh softly.

"Oh, look at me, carrying on," she said, moving back gently out of Arthur's embrace to wipe her face. She kissed each of them quickly, just like she used to do when they were small: quick pecks on foreheads. Ron remembered how he'd squirm to get away from her, which was probably how she had gotten to be so quick about it. But now, none of them tried to get out of her quick embrace.

"We love you, Mum," Fred and George said together.

"I love you too, dears, all of you." She ruffled Ron's hair. "Nothing like a good cry out to ruin a perfectly good Christmas, is there?"

"You couldn't ruin Christmas if you tried," Ginny said.

"Unless, of course, you forgot to get us presents," Fred said seriously.

"Oh, please don't say you've forgotten the presents," George chimed in.

"No presents?" Bill added.

"That's criminal, that is," Charlie put in.

By now Molly was beaming around at her children. "There are presents for everyone, as you well know. What shall we do first, presents or pudding?"

"Presents," they said in unison. It was always presents, every year.

* * *

Because Pansy's family always opened presents at midnight on Christmas Eve, there was nothing to do after dinner but sit around and stare at each other. This year, luckily for everyone, there was a mass amount of alcohol to be consumed in the process, which lightened things up considerably.

Pansy sat at a card table at the far end of the parlor, which was really more of a sitting room as Basil had so graciously pointed out, playing a game of poker with her cousins. They were playing with an old self-shuffling deck Pansy had found in a drawer of one of the mahogany end tables, so at least she didn't have to be embarrassed by her lessening coordination.

On the other end of the sitting room, Grandmother Viola was drinking a Cosmopolitan and talking to her sons in low tones. Claudia and Enid had disappeared sometime after Pansy had lost half of her money to Marcus. They were surely back in the kitchen, smoking and drinking more rum than was probably healthy, saying no doubt very terrible and true things about their mother-in-law.

Clayton, self-deigned Bacchanalian reveler of the evening, refilled Pansy's glass as she lost yet another hand. "I reckon she'll be out in about another ten minutes or so," he whispered to his oldest brother, who glanced up furtively while he dealt out another round.

"Huh?" Pansy asked, slightly pissed. "Who?"

"Dad will take her home, and then we're free," Basil whispered in Pansy's ear.

She focused her eyes across the room on her grandmother. Her vision swam slightly at the edges. "Free to do what?" she whispered back.

"Well, since you're of age, we'd thought we'd take you out to Diagon Alley," Marcus said covertly from behind his hand.

"Of course, Grandmother Viola would never conceive of it," Clayton intoned.

"So, we're waiting for Basil's sleeping potion to take effect, and then..." Marcus trailed off.

"I can't believe you drugged our grandmother," Pansy said, impressed. This was shaping up to be a fucking brilliant Christmas.

"Well, can you blame me?" Basil said, smirking. "If I had to hear one more jibe about poofters, I was seriously going to be sick."

"Hang on," Pansy said, eyes wide. She giggled. "You're gay?"

"Duh," Clayton said, rolling his eyes.

"Holy shit," Pansy said, taking another sip of her wine. "I just thought she hated you because you look like your mum."

"Well, she does," Basil said. "She'd have me disinherited if she found out about the cocksucking on top of it."

"Damn," Pansy said, glancing at her grandmother, who seemed to be gradually slouching further and further back into her armchair.

"If she doesn't die soon," Marcus said out of the side of his mouth, "I'll have to take a job on the continent. I'm running out of excuses not to visit."

"I am very involved in my work," Clayton said sternly, which caused his brothers to chuckle.

"I doubt she misses me," Basil said breezily, raising the ante.

"If it makes you feel any better," Pansy said, folding her hand yet again, "I've been fucking the wrong boy for years."

"Oh, honey, aren't we all?" Basil said, showing his cards and causing his brothers to groan and lay down their beaten hands.

From the corner of the room, Pansy's father's voice rose. "Mother? Mother, are you well?"

The four cousins took pause to watch.

"I'll be damned," Uncle Matthew said, "she's asleep."

"Well, I'll be," John said with a laugh. "You'll be taking her home then?"

Matthew was already lifting her up onto her feet. "I'll be back for Enid," he said. "Let her know I've gone?"

"Right-o," John said, turning to notice all the grandchildren watching with interest. "Looks like you lot got off easy this year."

Marcus was now standing, Clayton had gathered the cards, and Basil had his pockets stuffed with the gold he'd won. Pansy, meanwhile, had finished her glass of wine and was taking off her pointy shoes. She nearly ran to her father as Uncle Matthew stepped into the fire to Floo Grandmother Viola home, and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "We're going to Diagon Alley," she said by way of explanation. Then she ran up the stairs to her bedroom to put on something a bit more casual.

Once in her bedroom, she whipped her robes off over her head, and then threw open the wardrobe doors to inspect the contents. She marveled that her clothing had gotten blacker and blacker over the years, traces of pink all but weeded out. She fingered the skirt of a black dress, pulling it off the hanger, turning to look at herself in the mirror and pressing it to her body. She had, by all rights, outgrown it last year, but it had been her favorite. It had a fitted velvet bodice and a slightly poofy skirt that only reached mid-thigh. It was a dangerous, smoldering, sex goddess type dress that she had bought with Morag in Diagon Alley one summer and had had to smuggle home. She had only worn it once, and that had been to Morag's New Year's party the previous year. Draco hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her.

She grinned wickedly at her reflection, and then stepped quickly into the dress. It was a bit too short, bordering on indecent, really, but she found that she had lost enough weight over the last term that she could at least still fasten the top. She touched up her make-up, adding more eyeliner, and put on her pointy heels first, and then decided that falling down in this dress really wasn't an option, so she put on her trusty boots.

She gave herself one last once-over in the mirror. Yes. She looked hot. She pulled her new traveling cloak on, careful to wrap it tight in case her mother or father caught her, and then ran back down the stairs to find her cousins, grinning like idiots, around the fireplace. Matthew was back, and he stood by the fire laughing with her father.

"Ready?" Marcus asked.

"Absolutely," Pansy said. Her heart was pounding with excitement. She hadn't been properly out to the bars of Diagon Alley, seeing as she was the oldest in her year in Slytherin and had spent all summer locked in her room mourning the loss of her girlish dreams. "Ready as ever."

"If you'd excuse us," Clayton said, taking a pinch of Floo powder off the mantel when his father had stepped aside. He threw it into the fire and yelled, "Diagon Alley!"

Basil followed with a wink, and then there was just Pansy and Marcus left in the parlor, staring at their parents.

"Now, you keep her out of trouble," Pansy's father told him. "And have her home by dawn, if you could."

"Thanks, Daddy," Pansy said, kissing him on the cheek again. "I'll be good."

"I expect you to act responsibly," Matthew told his son. "Don't drink and Apparate. You know how that upsets your mother."

"Yes, yes, right," Marcus said, putting his hand between Pansy's shoulder blades and pushing her toward the fire.

She took a pinch of Floo powder, called out her destination, and stepped in. She remembered to tuck in her elbows, and as everything spun she could feel the alcohol in her blood moving. Just at the moment she thought she was going to be sick all over herself, she felt two sets of hands grab onto her shoulders and pull her out into the Leaky Cauldron.

Blinking into the eyes of her cousins, the first thing she could think to think was, "Holy shit, this place is packed!"

And apparently she had said it out loud, because Basil and Clayton had thrown their heads back and laughed, and then Pansy felt Marcus behind her. "Let's go to The Erumpent & Dragon!" he yelled over the voices of the over-crowded bar.

Basil took her by the hand as he turned to follow Clayton cutting his way through the crowd. Behind her, she felt Marcus' hands on her shoulders, steering her through. Pansy was further jostled by the throng of patrons as they made their way to the door. Someone stepped on her toe. Someone ran into her shoulder.

Outside in the cold December air, a witch and wizard were snogging against the brick wall. "Oh, get a room!" Marcus laughed.

The wizard extricated a hand long enough to make a rude gesture, and Pansy turned around in time to see the wall crumble away as Diagon Alley appeared, in all its holiday glory.

* * *

Ron carefully made his way down the stairs of the Burrow, avoiding all of the creaky steps and random socks and tidbits of wrapping paper that had somehow made their way up the steps. It was just past midnight, yet he wasn't entirely sure his mother and father were sound asleep. So he was being cautious, just in case. He somehow doubted that, even on Christmas, his mum would be too keen on the lot of them sneaking out like this.

Finally, he touched down on the main floor. The yellow glow of the fire leaked out from beneath the kitchen door. He pushed it open tentatively, peaking his head in to see all of his brothers assembled, cloaked, and glaring at each other. And then he noticed Ginny.

She was standing in front of the fireplace, hands on hips, in her winter cloak and the knit scarf she had unwrapped a few hours ago. Her chin was jutted out, and Ron immediately knew the problem.

"No," Bill said firmly, as Ron moved into the room. "You're not going."

"My sentiments exactly," Percy said, arms crossed.

"You're not even old enough," Charlie tried to reason. "We'll all get thrown out if you're caught."

"No one really bothers with ages on Christmas," George said.

"And we know the bartender," Fred said.

"And the pub owner," George colluded.

"You're not helping," Bill intoned dangerously.

"Shall we vote on it?" Fred said sarcastically.

"All in favor of Ginny joining us?" George said.

Two hands shot up into the air.

"All opposed?" Percy said as he raised his hand.

Charlie and Bill raised their hands as well.

"Ha!" Percy crowed. "We win! Ginny stays!"

"Ron didn't vote," Fred said, turning to Ron.

But Ron was looking at Ginny. "You really want to go?"

"Even if Ron did vote, the worst case scenario is that there'd be a tie. And with no one to break it, what then?" Charlie said.

George seemed to consider this for a moment. "He's right you know."

"I don't want to be left here," Ginny said. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Ron. You know that."

"You're sure?" Ron asked Ginny. "It probably won't be very exciting at all."

"Better than staying here," Ginny countered.

"Well, let's look at this logically," Bill said, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Either we leave her here to tell on us, or we take her along as an accomplice."

"I vote Ginny goes," Ron said, breaking his eyes away from his sister and turning to the assembly of brothers. "And Ginny wouldn't tell, anyway."

"Oh, yes I would!" she said, turning her fierce eyes on Ron. "I'd tell if you all went out and left me here on Christmas."

"We could just Obliviate her," Fred said, turning to Charlie, who shook his head. "Just a little bit. It'd be worth it, since you are so intent on leaving her behind."

"No one is Obliviating anyone," Bill said with a sigh. "Ginny's going to Diagon Alley with us. We will smuggle her under aged self into dodgy pubs and swear upon our various hearts to protect her honor."

Ginny actually jumped up and down and clapped her hands.

"You owe me one, you know that?" said Ron.

"You're just jealous 'cause I'm cuter," Ginny said with a flip of her hair.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Ron said, taking a pinch of Floo powder as George held out the pot.

Bill tossed his into the fireplace and disappeared into the green flame.

"You're not drinking, you realize," Ron said, elbowing his sister as Charlie stepped into the fire.

"Like hell I'm not!"

Percy stepped into the flames.

"You're off Quidditch if you embarrass me," he said, gritting his teeth.

George followed Fred into the fire.

"You can't," Ginny said, tossing in her pinch of Floo powder and saying, "Diagon Alley!"

"Bugger all," Ron said, throwing his own pinch of Floo powder into the flame and resigning himself to what would no doubt be another fine Weasley adventure.

* * *

There are several things to remember when dancing in an establishment such as The Erumpent & Dragon. The first is, of course, to guard your drink with your life against all infractions of shoulders, elbows, heads, sometimes feet, but most importantly theft. Secondly, and this was equally important, never assume that every tall, dark-haired wizard you shimmy into is your gay cousin, and then proceed to shimmy further. It became apparent a moment too late to Pansy that, in a place such as The Erumpent & Dragon, where the candles floating overhead only shed sparse light onto the dance floor, every wizard looked like said dark-haired gay cousin at a glance. This can land a girl in a bit of a sticky spot which only her good manners and charming wit could possibly get her out of.

"Oh, is that your lap?" Pansy yelled over her shoulder and in the general direction of the ear somehow attached to the crotch that bumped into her rear end.

A lull in the music between songs, and Pansy heard the man behind her laugh. She felt a hand on her hip as he moved closer, pulling her back against him. "Yes, and is that your bum?"

Pansy threw her head back a bit, laughing throatily. She turned in his grasp, keeping her glass held high above her as his hand slid effortlessly around her waist, coming to rest on her lower back. She looked from his collar, up his neck, to his ear, and then across to his eyes.

"Weasley?"

"Parkinson?"

They each took a hurried step backwards, and the crowd swallowed Pansy as everyone began to dance enthusiastically, incited by the opening notes of the new Beastly Boys song. She saw Ron turn, getting pushed further back into the throng. She tried to keep her eyes on him, but in an instant it was impossible as two guys starting spinning her around in a small circle created apparently just for the purpose of dizzying innocent bystanders. Pansy closed her eyes and allowed the hands to spin her. She felt her skirt floating up, but didn't much care. She loved this song. She loved Christmas. She loved everything about everything and especially hard cider. Yes, especially that.

"Parkinson?"

Pansy's eyes snapped open and she stopped spinning instantly as a cold hand took hers.

"What? Are you people everywhere tonight?" Pansy yelled above the music as Ginny began to lead her away from the small group of dancers, who by now had snagged another innocent and had taken to spinning her in their midst.

"Come here!" Ginny yelled over her shoulder. It became obvious to Pansy that Ginny was leading her through the crowd to the dark hallway that led to the loos.

Pansy let Ginny lead her. Her head was spinning, and she was intoxicated not only by the drinks her cousins had been supplying her with all night, but also by the warm press of bodies and the soft rhythms of touch carried out in the name of dancing.

The youngest Weasley pushed past several snogging couples and into the loo, which was just as crowded as the dance floor, although the stall doors stood open. Pansy caught her reflection in the mirror, short dark hair with the pins falling out, her lipstick smeared and her eyeliner running partway down her face, which was glossed with a thin sheen of sweat. Pansy began to fumble for her wand to put her face to rights when Ginny shoved her glass into Pansy's hand.

"Hold this," Ginny said, stepping into one of the stalls.

Pansy took it, shrugged, and threw the cider down her throat.

"Happy Christmas, then? We had to drug our grandmother to get out of the house," Pansy rambled to the woman busy being sick in the sink. "And did you know my cousin's gay?" The woman continued to vomit. "Yeah, neither did I. I mean, he's never acted gay, I guess. But, then again, we don't really know each other too well, since he's older and all."

"Parkinson."

"It's so very strange. You think you know a person and then, suddenly WHAM! Newsflash!"

"Parkinson!"

"And there are Weasley's EVERYWHERE!" Pansy said, exploding in a laugh as Ginny finally spun her around. Pansy handed her the now empty glass that had previously held her half pint of cider. "And it's really, really getting on my nerves."

"You're pissed," Ginny said, not without wonder.

"You're red," Pansy retorted.

"You're insane," Ginny replied, raising her eyebrow at her glass. "And you owe me a cider."

"I owe you half a cider," Pansy said merrily, finishing off her own glass. "You can add it to my tab," she whispered to Ginny with a grin.

Ginny set her glass down on the floor and put her hands on her hips. "You look like a total slut, Parkinson."

"You know," Pansy said in her bitterest tones, "you're too young to be here, aren't you?"

"Shut up and let me fix you up," Ginny said, pulling her wand out.

"Whoa! Hey, there! Watch where you're pointing that thing!" Pansy took a step backward and her arse hit against the porcelain sink.

"Your make-up is a fright, Parkinson. And if you tried to fix it, you'd end up with your nose off. Remember Eloise Midgen?" Ginny said.

Pansy smirked. "That girl is legend, isn't she? I want to be a legend. Not for anything like that, mind. For something... you know. Wicked."

Ginny sighed, obviously perturbed. "Now, what length was your skirt originally?"

Pansy smacked her lips. "Indecent, approaching pornographic, partner."

"I am not your partner," Ginny said, and, with a gentle tug, set Pansy's dress to rights.

"Of course not. Can't have Gryffindors fraternizing with the enemy, now, can we? Whatever would Dumbledore think?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Dumbledore has more important things to think about than whether or not you and I are getting on. You're crass, snobby, arrogant, ridiculous, and just plain mean."

Pansy scrunched up her face as she surveyed her make-up, albeit somewhat blurrily, in the mirror. "There's a compliment hidden in there somewhere, I'm sure of it." She cast a quick charm to freshen her make-up.

Ginny growled. "I really don't know what my brother sees in you."

Pansy quirked an eyebrow and tried to re-pin a section of her hair. She looked at Ginny in the mirror. "So, Ron fancies me, then?"

"No. Bill does. Who do you think?" Ginny snorted. Over her shoulder, Pansy could see Ginny looking at herself in the mirror.

"Bill? Now which one is he again?" Pansy said, turning. "You know, you could do with a spot of make-up yourself."

This time Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Bill's the oldest. And I look just fine."

"Whatever," Pansy said, turning back to the mirror.

Ginny was silent for several minutes as a large flock of women filed past her out of the loo. "You think I should wear make-up then?"

Pansy shrugged. "Some mascara, maybe a bit of kohl around your eyes."

Ginny stepped forward so that she was level with Pansy at the sinks. They stared at their reflections.

"I'm dreadfully skilled at cosmetic charms, you know," Pansy whispered.

* * *

Ginny glared at Pansy over her shoulder, her eyes now rimmed black, seemingly cast into deeper shadow, as they stepped into the crowd and continued to walk across the bar around several tables scattered with bottles and glasses to a booth in a corner, where sat what could only be another Weasley.

"Hallo!" Pansy said cheerily to the bespectacled man who sat at the table, taking a slow sip from his bottle.

"This is Pansy Parkinson," Ginny said, hooking her thumb over her shoulder to indicate where Pansy stood.

"I need another drink," Pansy said, turning back in the general direction of the dance floor. It was impossible to discern which ones were Parkinsons. The only way to find her cousins was to go back into the crowd and hunt them out. Pansy tugged up the bodice of her dress and pulled a strap back onto her shoulder.

"You really think so?" Ginny asked behind her.

"Yes, I really do. The sudden appearance of so many Weasleys has made me frighteningly aware of my own sobriety. Or something," Pansy explained. "For every Weasley I see, I'll need at least one more pint."

"Oh, that's real nice," Ginny said sourly, opening her purse.

Pansy had a sudden idea. She grinned mischievously at Ginny, then took her hand and yanked her toward the dance floor. "There is no reason that two reasonably attractive girls such as ourselves can't procure free drinkage," Pansy said, pulling Ginny onto the dance floor.

"I am not putting out for drinks," Ginny said stodgily as Pansy tugged her into the crowd.

"Course not," Pansy said, eyeing possible targets. "Right. See that bloke with the earring there?"

"That's my brother."

"Oh. Well, shit. How about that one next to him?"

"That one, too."

"Damn. Need something less freckly then, huh?" Pansy scanned the other half of the crowd. "Oh, he'll do nicely," she purred, slinking between several people until she had successfully sidled up to a tall blonde. She bumped into him, seemingly on accident, and, upon turning to apologize, pretended to stumble backwards. Instinctively, he reached out to her, catching her by the elbows.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said, beginning to dance with her.

Pansy moved her hips in time with the music. "And how do you plan on making it up to me?" she said, pouting slightly.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Pansy licked her lips. "Buy me a drink," she shouted, "and I'll tell you about it."

He grinned, took her hand, and began to lead her to the bar. She glanced over her shoulder in order to share her victory, but there was no Weasley in sight. Just as well. It was a terrible pain to play the, "And how about one for my friend?" card.

"I'll have two..." the man said to the bartender, before turning to Pansy.

"Hard ciders," Pansy finished.

The blonde man smiled at her. She smiled back. He may have been twenty, twenty-one. Not bad looking, either.

The bartender set down their drinks. Pansy took hers, and then turned, leaning her back against the brass rail on the bar as she raised her glass to her lips. She figured she was so far past drunk that she'd probably need a new liver when she woke up tomorrow. One more pint wasn't going to make a difference.

"So, what did you have in mind?" the man said, running his fingers up Pansy's bare arm.

Pansy surveyed him out of the corner of her eye. "You know, you look just like my father."

The man choked on his drink. "Sorry?"

"Just in the face," Pansy said sweetly, leaning into him a little bit. "I wonder if we're related."

"Parkinson."

Pansy turned from the man to find Ron, hair tousled and looking surly, standing in front of her fastening the clasp on his cloak.

"Sorry, do you know each other?" the man asked, looking from Ron to Pansy.

"No," Pansy said.

"Yes," Ron said.

"Right. I'll be going then. Enjoy your drink," the man said, and quickly scampered off.

Ron took his place at the bar. Pansy scowled up at him. "I'll have you know I could have milked that for at least two more rounds."

"Have you no shame?" Ron asked. He was leaning with his elbows up on the bar, back slightly bent and looking at Pansy through lowered lashes, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

"It's true," Pansy said, taking another drink of her cider, eyes turned back out on the crowd. "I have no shame, but plenty of pride to make up for it."

"Having your cake and eating it too?"

"I don't see why not," Pansy said tightly. Of all the badly-decorated, hard cider selling, packed to capacity, dodgy wizarding joints in all the towns in all the world, Weasley had to walk into this one.

"Look," Ron said, his tone suddenly serious. Pansy got the impression that he was far more drunk than he was letting on. "We're leaving, and I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"I'm fine," Pansy said firmly, dancing a bit in her spot. She wanted him to let her alone, but didn't want him to leave, which she realized didn't make much sense.

"Erm, are you here with someone?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "My three older, taller, very male cousins brought me. They're here," Pansy said, scanning the crowd. "Somewhere."

"You can walk with us back to the Leaky if you want," Ron persisted.

"Listen, Weasley," Pansy said, finally turning to him. She put her drink down on the bar and took his face between her hands. "We're not a couple. We aren't even an item. And I'm a big girl who can take care of herself. So quit being such a Gryffindor and either start kissing or start walking."

Ron looked at her blankly for a minute. "You're bloody impossible," he said, his lips slightly squished together by the way Pansy had hold of his face.

"I get that a lot," Pansy said, not releasing his head. "So what is it? Kissing or walking? I haven't got all night." She squished her fingers against his cheeks, slightly shaking his head from side to side.

"You're mental, you know," Ron said as he leaned forward. "And I'd like to state for the record that I don't take kindly to being taken advantage of like this."

Their mouths met at some middle point; Pansy tipping forward onto her toes and Ron bending down at his shoulders. His hands found their way around her waist for the second time that night, and Pansy relaxed her grip on his cheeks. His tongue darted past her lips, sliding against hers in that deliciously heady way he had of being at once both languid and impatient. He tasted of firewhisky and lager, and Pansy could smell Christmas on him: snow, pine, pudding. He pulled her closer, pressing into her. Her breasts smashed into his chest and his crotch ground into her stomach. Her hands began moving, threading through his hair and skating down over his chest.

She could feel her blood. Despite the alcohol and the sudden cold that fell on her shoulders, she could feel her blood. It was rushing through her body, her heart was pumping it to every cell, to every last capillary, where it made its way back again in that endless cycle: to the tips of her clumsy fingers to the tips of her sore toes, hitting every spot in between. It was really a wonderful feeling. Draco had never made her feel like this. He had never, ever, made her feel like she could lose her head in an instant and neither flinch nor care. He had never, ever, made her feel this warm. Not with his cold eyes and arrogance and all his talk of Slytherin Pride. He had never made her feel like the world was crashing down around her, like the whole damn world was exploding.

It occurred to her that it was irrepressibly wrong to be thinking of Draco when she was being so thoroughly snogged by Ron Weasley, and so she pulled away from his kiss, out of his embrace.

At which point she realized dully, through the helplessness of lust and the effects of all the alcohol, that the world really was crashing down around her, in a very explosive way.

"Fucking hell," Pansy said, sobering slightly.

The music ended abruptly, and the people on the dance floor stopped moving, like the gears in a clock when a cog had fallen out somewhere.

Pansy looked up at Ron, who was looking over the heads of the crowd.

There was an explosion outside, and the windows flooded with green light. En masse, the dance floor seemed to come alive again with screams and a scramble for the door.

Pansy kept her eyes on Ron. "What's going on?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"I don't know," Ron said, "but there's only one spell that I can think of that casts that color light."

Pansy shivered involuntary, and Ron pulled her to him. Another explosion reverberated through the pub, sending the bottles behind the bar and the glass shelves they rested on shattering to the floor.

"We have to get out of here!" a voice said, pulling on Ron's arm so that it swung off Pansy's bare shoulder. Pansy looked up to see the man with the fang earring, Ginny, and what only could have been the rest of the Weasley clan standing around them, wands drawn.

"You're coming with us," Ron told Pansy, his tone brooking no argument.

"All right," she replied, "but I need my cloak."

* * *

The scene in the street was pure chaos. Ron scanned the throng of people, most of whom were undoubtedly heading for the Leaky Cauldron's Floo or Muggle London beyond. The more reckless and foolhardy (and probably drunker) members of the crowd were Disapparating from the street, which, Ron had learned in his Apparating classes, would more than likely result in splinching. It was just too risky to Apparate when drunk, even with experience. Anyone with any sense at all knew that.

The Weasleys looked down the street at the horde of people rushing for The Leaky Cauldron, and in an instant they seemed to come to the same conclusion, turning together from the Leaky Cauldron and heading for Fred and George's shop.

"Where are we going?" Pansy asked, eyes wide and wand drawn. She was thrashing through the snow unsteadily, and Ron considered asking her just how much she had had to drink that night, but, given his equally inebriated state, thought it perhaps didn't really matter.

"Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes," Fred said, falsely jovial. His eyes were dark and sharp as he watched the crowd.

They rounded the corner, and there, hanging up in the sky, was the Dark Mark.

Pansy paused, looking up at it, and Ron bumped into her. "Keep moving," Ron instructed.

They moved quickly through the streets, quietly moving from the shadow of one building to the next, working their way up the block. This end of Diagon Alley was mostly deserted, as most of the activity had been at the other end, closer to the Leaky. George and Fred ran ahead, reaching the door of their shop and disarming the wards in the shadow of the awning sheltering their stoop. The rest of the Weasleys followed in single file through the door. Ron and Pansy were in the back, and just as Pansy stepped over the threshold, Ron glanced over his shoulder in time to see a cluster of robed figures pour into the far end of the street.

Death Eaters.

He froze for a fraction of a second, and something occurred to him. "Where's Percy?" he asked Fred, who stood at the door as Ron stepped through it. He scanned the room, the panic in his chest swelling. "He's not here."

"Maybe he went to the Leaky," Bill said as he fumbled with the Floo powder, pushing Ginny, despite her protests, into the fire and sending her back to the Burrow first.

"Oh, no," Fred said.

Ron spun, George ran over, and Charlie appeared at their side. They pressed their faces into the frosted window. From their safe vantage point, they saw Percy round the corner, caught utterly unguarded by the group of Death Eaters in the street.

Fred was already unlocking the door, when Charlie put his hand on top of his, lowering his wand. "We can't risk it," Charlie said softly.

"We can't just leave him," Ron said, panicking.

"Ron, he's right," George said softly. "There are eight of them. Do the math. We don't stand a chance."

"Get the Order," Ron said.

"We've already sent word," Bill said, coming up behind them.

Outside in the street, Percy paused. Ron saw him glance in the direction of the shop. The Death Eaters followed his gaze, and in that moment, Percy Disapparated. Ron stepped back from the windows as the Death Eaters raised their wands.

"Go. Now!" Bill said, pulling his brothers away from the window as a spell rocked the storefront.

Ron put his arms around Pansy as a series of blasts pounded at the door. Fred and George must have spent a fortune on warding the place to survive a beating like that.

"GO!" Bill said as Ron ran to the fireplace, Pansy with him. Ron fumbled with the Floo powder, dropping it to the floor. The pot broke and the shining powder went everywhere.

"Oh, nice one, Ron," Fred said.

"Dammit, Ron!" George swore.

"I'm sorry!" Ron screamed as another curse fell on the shop. "It's not like I meant to!"

"We'll have to Disapparate," Bill said quickly. "Can you do it?" he asked Pansy.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Pansy said by way of response. She was an unholy shade of green.

"Oh, big fuck," Fred said as another curse hit the storefront. A thin crack ran the length of the large front window.

"That will cost a pretty galleon to replace," George said.

"Give her to me," Bill said, pulling Pansy out of Ron's arms and into his own.

A crack split the air as Bill and Pansy Disapparated.

"See you at the Burrow?" Fred said to George, and they were both gone.

Ron stayed for another second, long enough for the window to shatter, and then he, too, Disapparated.

* * *

In the kitchen of the Burrow, Molly Weasley held back Pansy's hair as she vomited into the sink, her voice shattering the silence of the night.

"--and you could have been killed!"

Ron slumped into a chair, thanking his lucky, unlucky, and apathetic stars alike that he had arrived whole and right side out. Bill, Charlie, Fred, and George were putting on thick robes over their Muggle clothes, getting ready to meet the Order in Diagon Alley. Ron wondered vaguely if anyone had any idea of what had happened to Percy.

Pansy retched loudly. "Oh, you poor dear," Molly said, rubbing her back with one hand. "And I don't appreciate you bringing home drunk girls at three in the morning, Bill Weasley," she threatened.

"She's Ron's drunk girl, not mine," Bill said before Flooing to Order Headquarters.

"Am not," came Pansy's muffled voice from within the contours of the sink.

"Ronald Weasley!" Molly screamed. "If I didn't have to leave this instant!"

Ron and Ginny exchanged looks. Pansy groaned from the sink.

"You three go to bed," Molly said, stepping away from Pansy and fastening the clasps on her cloak. "We'll sort this mess out in the morning. I'll explain the situation to the poor girl's parents. Really, Ronald!" she scolded as she stepped into the fire.

For a long moment, Ron and Ginny said nothing, just watched Pansy's back arch again and again as she heaved into the sink. "I hate you all," she said at last, miserably, standing up and wiping her mouth on a kitchen towel.

Ginny stood and made to leave.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked.

"To bed," Ginny said sharply.

"What am I supposed to do with her?" Ron said, pointing at Pansy.

"You could probably send her home," Ginny said nastily.

"I am right here, you know," Pansy replied, "and I am not going home like this." She wobbled slightly, her eyes fluttering closed. "I just want to pass out. Or die. I'd take death as a viable option right about now."

"I recommend the couch," Ginny said, and then ducked out of the room.

"I am not sleeping on the couch," Pansy said.

"You're a fucking miserable drunk, you know that?" Ron said, standing up from the kitchen table. "You could sleep in Bill or Charlie's bed, they probably won't be back home tonight."

"I am not sleeping in one of your brother's beds," Pansy said haughtily.

Ron huffed in frustration, his voice rising. "Your only other option is the floor."

Pansy appeared to consider this for a moment, and then she snapped her fingers. "You take the couch. I'll take your bed."

"Fine," Ron said, grinding his teeth.

"Fine," Pansy said.

"Fine."

"Well?"

"Well what?" Ron asked.

"Where is it?" Pansy said. She took a step forward, and immediately collapsed into Ron's arms.

Ron swore, hoisting Pansy up and carrying her up the stairs. She wasn't light, by any measure, but he couldn't just let her sleep it off in the kitchen. He trudged up the stairs, swearing the entire time. He took her first to the loo, and waited outside the door while she took care of what needed taking care of. The sink ran for a long time before she finally turned it off and fumbled out into the hall.

Once in his room, Pansy was conscious long enough to change into a pair of his pajamas. Ron turned his back, and Pansy laughed, taunting him. "Oh, the ever pure Gryffindor. Never seen a naked girl before, I bet. Never had a nak--"

"Oh, shut up," Ron said, stepping out into the landing. "Don't barf on my pillow, okay?"

He leaned his head back against the door, listening to Pansy get into his bed. Overhead, the ghoul banged on something, and Pansy swore.

He was halfway down the stairs before he realized he hadn't bothered to grab his own pajamas. And if he was being made to sleep on the couch, at least he was going to be comfortable.

He opened the door to his room quietly. Pansy lay with her back to the door, curled up on her side. "Pansy?" he whispered. When she didn't respond, he moved further into the room. "Pansy?" he whispered again. She displayed still no signs of life, so Ron tiptoed over to his Hogwarts trunk, which he hadn't bothered to unpack, and pulled out a clean pair of pajamas. He pulled his shirt off over his head, and froze as Pansy moved, turning over so that she was now lying on her back. "Pansy?" he asked, louder this time.

She didn't respond, only lolled her head to one side, lips parting slightly.

Making his mind up in an instant, he quickly undid his trousers and pulled on his drawstring pajama bottoms.

"Ron?" Pansy said.

Ron froze again. He looked at her in the snow-soaked moonlight that filtered through the frosty windows. "Yeah?"

"Would you rub my back?" Pansy whined, rolling onto her stomach.

"Er..." Ron said, padding softly over to her.

"I feel so sick," Pansy mumbled, face pressed into Ron's pillow.

"Sick like you're going to puke again sick?" Ron asked, concerned for his pillow.

"The room won't stop spinning," she moaned.

Ron sat down on the edge of his bed, scooting until his hip pressed against hers. He held his hand several inches above Pansy's back. He had never given a massage before. Especially not to a drunk girl who was wearing his favorite Cannons tee and moaning into his pillow.

"Please?" Pansy moaned again, pressing her hip into Ron's.

Ron knew that life wasn't fair. It was a constant oath in the Weasley household. But this was just plain cruel.

Gently, Ron set his hand down on her back. She seemed to arch into his touch. He moved his hand around in small circles, comforting circles, like how his mum had done in the kitchen.

Pansy whimpered. Actually whimpered.

Ron took a moment to silently curse fate.

"Go under," she mumbled.

"Sorry?" Ron said.

"Go under the shirt," she said.

Startled, Ron paused. Surely she didn't mean...

But she must have, because the next minute her fingers were hitching up the tee shirt, pulling it up to her ribs.

Rob saw the curves of her waist between the blanket and her shirt. He touched her back where it was bare, and slowly slid his hand up, along her spine, and under the worn cotton of the faded orange tee.

Pansy whimpered again.

Her skin was hot and smooth and soft and many things that were having a very peculiar effect on Ron.

After several moments, her whimpers stopped, and she appeared to be asleep again. Ron stood, but Pansy whispered, "Stay."

"Stay?" Ron repeated.

"Stay," Pansy said, looking over her shoulder at him. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall again, leaving a sizable space between her body and the edge of the bed. Ron, feeling a bit helpless and rather lost, lay down next to her, curling his body against hers, careful not to get too close. He slid one arm under the pillow and beneath her head and rested the other one on his side.

Pansy sighed, and the terrible problem of where to put his hand perplexed Ron until Pansy reached up and pulled his hand from his hip to around her stomach.

Pansy sighed again, and Ron laid his head back on the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering about Percy and the others with the Order, doubting that he'd be able to sleep much that night, if at all.