Pariah

Pariah, chapter elevensies

Annunciation

Did she put on his knowledge with his power

Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

~ W.B. Yeats, Leda and the Swan

Every square inch of her body hummed with the dull ache of metabolizing alcohol, from her littlest toe all the way up to the very top of her pounding head. Waking up was such a horrible, vile, and dreadful event, and Pansy thought that whoever invented such a thing as morning should be dragged out into the middle of High Street and set upon the rack. And everyone in town should be handed either a sizable rock or a particularly wilted head of lettuce to throw at him. It certainly was a crime against humanity.

She rolled her head to the side enough to watch Christopher Cross brain himself with his own Bludger bat in a poster of the 1987 Chudley Cannons team. She blinked, because she did not have posters of the 1987 Chudley Cannons tacked to the ceiling of her bedroom. In fact, she should, by all rights, be staring at the underside of a frilly pink canopy right about now. She considered this for a moment longer, and then turned over very slowly onto her side to find a shirtless Ron Weasley laying flat on his back in the bed beside her, hands tucked under his head, staring up at the ceiling.

She tucked her head back down so that her nose was pressed tightly to the mattress, and then pulled the pillow over her head. Ron's sheets smelled like boy, and this certainly wasn't happening to her.

Several images from her escapades of the previous night raced through the foreground of her memory, but she couldn't quite remember how she ended up in this particular peculiar situation. Right, she thought. Well, shite.

"Erm," Pansy said thickly, lifting the pillow enough for her voice to escape. Her mouth felt as though it were stuffed with cotton. "How did I... I mean, we didn't... you know...."

Ron moved enough to look at her. "You're awake then?"

"Yeah," Pansy said, and then coughed slightly. "So we didn't do anything last night?"

"You don't remember?" Ron asked, suspicion undercutting the tone of his hoarse voice.

Pansy experimentally slid her leg further down the bed, along what she presumed to be Ron's calf. At least he was wearing bottoms. "I sort of remember being sick," she said slowly, "and then putting on pajamas. And then... nothing."

"Ah," Ron said shortly. He shifted his weight so that he was looking at her. His knee cocked out a bit, and their legs entwined slightly. "Nothing happened. You fell asleep and wanted me to stay."

"Oh," Pansy said, feeling an unfamiliar blush creeping up. She quickly stamped it out. "Did you cuddle me, Ron Weasley?" she accused.

"You kick in your sleep, did you know that?"

"Yes," Pansy said. "I also bit as a child."

"And suddenly, the world makes sense." Ron was grinning a bit now, the right side of his mouth quirked up. Then something in his eyes changed, and Pansy felt the bottom of her stomach drop out, which not only made her feel suddenly sick, but was also quite sobering.

"What?" she whispered.

"You should go home," Ron said quietly, sliding out of the bed.

"What time is it?" Pansy said. She was mesmerized by the dance of freckles along Ron's shoulders and back as he rose. Not for the first time, she wondered if those freckles went everywhere.

"Seven," Ron said bluntly.

"Shite," Pansy repeated, flipping the covers off and sitting up tentatively.

"Exactly," Ron said, stretching up to the ceiling with his hands above his head so that Pansy got an eyeful of moon-pale tummy marked by a line of ginger hair disappearing below the waistband of his flannel pajama bottoms. "What?" he said suddenly.

"Nothing," Pansy said quickly, getting out of bed. She hastily snatched up her rumpled robes and discarded dress of the previous evening and followed Ron down the stairs into the Weasley kitchen.

* * *

If Ron thought he was going to get Pansy out of the Burrow without anyone being the wiser, he was sorely mistaken. Sitting at the scrubbed wooden table was Ginny, nursing a cup of tea and reading the Daily Prophet, still in the clothes she had worn last night, her hair swept back into a messy ponytail high on her head. Her eyes were ringed in red and smudged with black, making her look even surlier and more ill tempered. Apparently, she hadn't slept a wink, either.

The moment Ron entered the room looking a mess in his bare feet and without a shirt, his sister gave him a dark look that only turned darker when Pansy came through the door behind him, dressed in his pajamas and carrying her attire in a large knot under one arm.

"I don't even want to know," Ginny said with a flicker of amusement and a good helping of disgust.

Ron ignored her and steered Pansy to the fireplace. She was rubbing the grit from her eyes, and she looked a perfect mess, half of the pins still clinging to the wanton curls in her hair, and her lips lined just at the edges with the dull pink residue of her red lipstick. Ron's borrowed pajama pants skimmed her hips and were several inches too long for her, so that she walked on the hems. Ron thought she looked better like this, with the edge off. Something about her looking a mess made her seem more human, more vulnerable perhaps.

"Dad poked his head in a while back," Ginny said, watching them curiously as Ron helped Pansy pull her cloak around her shoulders. "He said they'd be home in a few hours."

"Did you sleep at all?" Ron asked, offering Pansy the Floo powder.

"Nope," Ginny said shortly, returning to the Daily Prophet that lay open on the table.

Ron glimpsed pictures of Diagon Alley in the center spread. "Neither did I."

Pansy tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the fire. The flames leapt, casting the kitchen in a harsh green light. "Well, thanks, I guess," Pansy said finally, turning to Ron. "I'll return these, shall I?" she said, motioning at his pajamas.

"Nah," Ron said without thinking, "don't worry about it. They're just old pajamas."

"Right," Pansy said. "If my parents don't murder me, I suppose I'll see you back at Hogwarts." She called out her home address in Exeter and disappeared into the flames.

Ron watched the fire resume its normal hue, and then took out a chair across from Ginny and sat down. He folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them.

"You know, it would never work between the two of you," Ginny said bluntly.

"I know," Ron moaned miserably.

"She's still Pansy Parkinson, and she'll always be Pansy Parkinson, and there's not a single thing you can do to change that," Ginny said.

"I know," Ron groaned again.

"So we're clear," Ginny said.

Ron didn't say anything because he knew she was right. He had known it, in the back of his mind, since the beginning. He didn't even really like her. Admitting to liking her, in Ron's book, was perhaps equal to admitting mental subordinance. She just did something to him, which he supposed was just her evil, Slytherin girl way. After a moment, Ginny spoke again.

"Dad said Percy was at the Ministry when he got there."

"Good. Glad he's all right."

"Hey, Ron?"

Ron lifted his head and rested his chin on his wrist so that he could look at Ginny. Her face was shadowed with anxiety. "Yeah, Ginny?"

"Bill said," she began, and then paused to restart. "Bill wonders if maybe Percy isn't, you know."

"No, what?"

"He said that Percy looked at the shop before they started firing curses. He thought it almost looked like Percy was tipping them off."

"Ginny, don't be stupid. Percy wouldn't do that," Ron scoffed.

"I don't know, Ron," Ginny said, sounding suddenly an awful lot like Hermione. "Why didn't they try to curse him then, before he Disapparated?"

"Maybe he caught them off guard," Ron reasoned.

Ginny looked at him stonily. "Now who's the one being stupid?"

"Look," Ron said, anger rising. "Percy wouldn't betray us like that. He might be a prat, but he's a Weasley, remember? And besides, I was there, you weren't. I know what I saw. Percy wasn't tipping them off. He was looking for us. And maybe the reason they didn't kill him was because they were after any one of us!" Ron said it all in one big breath, his voice steadily climbing as he rose from his chair, until he was standing at his full height, yelling down at Ginny, expelling the thoughts that had been wracking his brain since the previous night. "Bill, Charlie, Fred, George--they're all in the Order! And we're best friends with Harry! Hell, they probably thought he was with us! Imagine the look on old You-Know-Who's face when he heard how they killed all of us in one go! He'd be so happy, he'd probably hand out galleons for Boxing Day."

"Don't get angry with me!" Ginny said, on her feet as well, already red in the face. "He's my brother, too. It hurts me just as much to admit it, but you have to understand how suspicious it is. We don't see hide or hair of him for years, and then he suddenly shows up at Christmas--the same Christmas we were all practically killed in Diagon Alley! Whose idea was it to go to Diagon Alley, anyway?"

"It was mine," Fred said suddenly, slumping out of the fire, George right behind him.

"Oh my God," Ginny said, hurrying to his side. "Are you all right? You're not hurt, are you?"

"Not hurt," George said, crumpling into Ron's now vacated chair. "Just bloody knackered."

Fred and George were both covered in soot from tip to toe, their robes torn at the hems and their faces sullied with streaks of charcoal black.

"What the hell happened to you two?" Ron said, putting the kettle on.

"Up and down the country, all damn night," Fred said.

"Diagon Alley is in shambles," George said. "The damage costs alone are disastrous."

"Was anyone hurt?" Ginny asked, busily helping Ron with the tea things.

"No, not seriously," Fred said, taking a cup and saucer from Ron's hands. "Just property."

"Gringotts got the worst of it," George said. "Toppled all the columns. Front steps are pebbles."

"Why?" Ron said.

Fred and George both shrugged. "They got the financial section of Exeter, as well. Same in Birmingham and Brighton and Manchester," Fred said. "Total mess. I'll be surprised if the businesses are open again until February."

"Senseless," Ginny said, pouring Fred and George each another cup. "What a bunch of morons."

Ron couldn't help but agree with her.

"Bunch of bloody gits," George said. "What were they after, you have to wonder?"

Fred had his mouth open, ready to reply, when suddenly a sharp knock came at the kitchen door. The four Weasleys turned to look at the door, none of them so much as breathing. If they were all thinking what Ron was thinking, they were scared as hell.

"Who do you think it is?" Ginny whispered.

The knock came again: three punctuated raps.

Ron slowly moved toward the door. He figured if it were anyone out to hurt them, they wouldn't have bothered to knock, right?

"Ron!" Fred hissed.

"Don't open it!" Ginny whispered.

Ron glanced at them, and then back at the door. Three more raps split the air, and he yanked open the door quickly, hoping to catch the visitor off guard.

"Ron!" Hermione threw her arms around him, and then stood back out at arm's length to survey him. "You're all right, aren't you? The Daily Prophet said there was an attack, and I just figured--Oh, Ginny! You're safe, too? And all of you?"

She brushed past him, a whirlwind of brown frizzy hair and sky blue wool cloak, hugging each of them in turn before finally turning back to Ron and giving him a look.

"What?" Ron said, looking down at himself, still shirtless.

"You know what this means, don't you?" she said cryptically, opening the book she had been carrying.

"No," Ron said cautiously, "but I'm sure you're going to tell us."

"It's started," Hermione said coolly, and, finding the page she had been looking for, set the book down on the dining room table on top of Ginny's Daily Prophet.

"Hermione, what is this?" Fred asked.

"Just a little something I picked up in the Restricted Section," she said slyly.

* * *

Pansy stepped out of the fire carefully, hoping against hope that her parents were sound asleep in bed and no one would be the wiser that she'd spent the night in bed with a Weasley. But it became apparent the moment her foot landed on flagstone that she would have no such luck this morning. Instantly, her mother's arms were around her, smothering her.

"Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God!" she cried, hugging Pansy to her as a pair of firmer hands pulled her into a tight embrace.

"Oh, child," her father sighed. "We were out of our minds."

"I'm fine," Pansy said, voice muffled against her father's chest. "Really."

"An Auror just arrived. She told us you were all right, of course. Said you were safe with the Weasleys. But what kind of mother would I be if I didn't worry myself sick? When you didn't come home, I--"

"Claudia," Pansy's father interrupted. "She's fine. She's here now. Let's go into the kitchen."

"Next time you pull a stunt like this, you'll be grounded for life, not just the holidays," Claudia intoned in a voice that left no question that she was dead serious. "And what are you wearing?"

"Grounded?" Pansy sputtered indignantly as she was herded into the kitchen. "You go from thinking I'm dead to punishing me, just like that? And they're pajamas, mother."

"Well, they're atrocious. You abused your privilege and abandoned your cousins. They could have done themselves a harm trying to find you in that racket," Claudia said, strictly.

"This is so unfair," Pansy huffed. She was sandwiched between her mother and father, and so had no choice but to go with them, when all she really wanted to do was stomp her foot and have a small tantrum. "I could have been killed!"

"Yes, you could have," her father said, voice like steel. "Now let that be a lesson to you." They stepped into the blinding light of the highly polished kitchen--Claudia had apparently been taking out her worry on the countertops, which reflected the first sunlight of morning--to find, leaning against the counter, a woman in her mid to late twenties, sipping a cup of coffee. She was wearing Auror robes, which were opened to reveal the exact same Weird Sisters tee that Pansy had stuffed in her trunk upstairs.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. The woman smiled.

Pansy's father remembered himself and introduced the strange woman in the kitchen. "Pansy, this is Auror Tonks. She has some questions to ask you about what happened in Diagon Alley."

"I don't know anything," Pansy said immediately, shocked as she was to meet yet another Tonks. She wondered if this Tonks was related to Professor Tonks, though she thought it perhaps rude to ask. At any rate, she looked nothing like her. For starters, this Tonks had bright pink hair.

"We just need to get an account from all who were present," Auror Tonks said, setting down her cup of coffee and offering her hand for Pansy to shake.

Pansy took it slowly. "All right, then. What do you want to know?" She wanted her parents to leave. If she was already in trouble for having been nearly killed, she didn't want to know what her punishment would be for getting pissed at the Erumpent and Dragon, then spending the night with a boy. No, this wasn't going to turn out to her advantage at all.

The Auror took out a small pad of paper, flipped it open, and extracted a bent quill from the pocket of her robes. "Just tell me what happened last night after you arrived in Diagon Alley."

"Well," Pansy began. "My cousins and I went to Diagon Alley, to the Erumpent and Dragon." Here, Claudia twitched. "We were celebrating. The place was packed. I ran into the Weasleys. After a bit, there was a crash and a lot of green light, and then everyone started screaming."

The Auror made furious notes while Pansy spoke.

"I couldn't find my cousins, so I left with the Weasleys. Most people probably went to the Leaky Cauldron or Apparated home, but the Weasleys have a shop on Diagon Alley, so we went there to Floo back to their house."

Pansy stopped talking. Her father's grip on her shoulder had tightened, and her mother was beyond pale. "I didn't know the Weasleys have a shop on Diagon Alley," she whispered to Pansy.

"Well, it belongs to the twin sons," Pansy explained quietly. "It's a joke shop."

"Good business?" her father asked.

"They seem to do well," Pansy answered, slightly puzzled as to how this possibly mattered.

"And then what happened?" the Auror asked. She set down the quill, then reached behind her to pick up her coffee cup, eyes never leaving Pansy. Her fingers fumbled with the handle of the cup, sending the coffee sloshing over the side of the counter, soon followed by the cup, which broke upon impact on the scrubbed floor. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed.

"It's all right," Pansy's mother said, quickly getting out her wand to repair the damage and mop up the spill.

Pansy, meanwhile, chuckled and slyly ducked out from under her father's grip.

"So," the Auror said, slightly flushed now and glancing at Claudia, who was busy cleaning up the mess. "After you left the pub, what happened then?"

"Well," Pansy said, taking a deep breath. "I was feeling rather ill, but I do remember getting into the shop just fine. Then there was some commotion outside."

"What sort of commotion?" The Auror had abandoned her quill and now had her attention fixed solely on Pansy, which made Pansy feel just a little bit uncomfortable.

"I can't really be sure," Pansy said with trepidation, "but I think there were Death Eaters."

Pansy's mother gasped. Her father merely sharpened his attention.

"Why do you think that?"

"Well, of course, I've never seen one before, but one of the Weasleys might have said something," Pansy said, shaking her head. There were a lot of confusing images in her mind, all slightly blurred and frustratingly vague. "Look, I had a lot to drink and I was rather ill by that time. I remember panicking. They sent Ginny home. They went to the window. Then they must have been firing curses at the shop. Ron dropped the Floo powder. The oldest one--"

"Bill," the Auror supplied.

"Yes, Bill, he took me back to their house--"

"You tandem Disapparated?" the Auror said, sounding surprised.

"Yeah, I guess," Pansy said.

"Impressive," her father intoned.

"And once you were at the Burrow?"

"The what?" Pansy asked, confused thoroughly now.

"The Weasley house. They call it the Burrow. What did you do when you arrived there?"

"Well, I was sick in the sink. Then I went to bed. Then I woke up this morning and came straight home." Pansy was nonplussed with this whole thing. It was confusing enough without all of the interruptions and useless commentary.

"Hmm," the Auror said shortly, gaze still fixed on Pansy. "Where did you sleep?"

Pansy blinked. "I can't see how that's relevant."

"Just answer the question, dear," Pansy's father said softly.

"I slept in Ron's bed."

Claudia dropped the cup she had just picked up off the floor. "What?"

"Nothing happened," Pansy sneered. "We just slept. I was too drunk to do anything, and Lord knows a Gryffindor would never take advantage, little--"

"She's got a point, you know," the Auror said, making notes. "And if you know the Weasleys like I do..."

"You know the Weasleys?" Pansy asked suddenly.

"Yes. I went to school with... several of them, come to it. Good kids. Bit freckly, but if that's what you're into, then..." She made a motion with her hand, but didn't finish the thought.

"I'm really not into any of them," Pansy said defensively. "We're just friends. Not even that. Just acquaintances that ran into each other at a pub and were thrown together by circumstance. What?" Pansy exploded at her mother, who was looking at her rather suspiciously. "So we have Prefect rounds together. So what? We're not, like, compadres or anything. Not even remotely significant to one another. Damn it! Quit staring at me!"

"So you're a Prefect, then?" the Auror asked, now looking most amused by the proceedings.

"Yeah. So?"

"I've heard there have been some incidents at the school these past several months."

Pansy narrowed her eyes. What did this Auror know? And could it jeopardize her standing as a Prefect? She hadn't exactly followed all of the rules, after all; knicker displays and hallway snogging weren't exactly procedure. "Maybe."

"Maybe? So you aren't going to deny it?"

"It's a school. Things happen," Pansy said breezily.

"I see," the Auror said, making a little tick on her notepad.

"What does that mean?" Pansy snapped.

"Pansy," her mother warned.

"Well, am I in trouble then?" Pansy asked petulantly.

"Not with the Ministry," the Auror said, unruffled and wearing a strange grin. She gathered her notebook and quill, stuffing them back into the pockets of her robes, spilling her ink in the process so that it blossomed against the blue of the robes. "If we have any further questions, we know where to find you," the Auror said, daubing at the spreading black stain with the hem of her sleeve.

"So it was Death Eaters, then?" Pansy's mother asked as they moved toward the front door.

"I can't say for certain," the Auror said, "but it certainly fits their modus operandi. The Weasleys are fairly respected in my department. I am sure they wouldn't lie about seeing Death Eaters. The extent of the damage all over England was phenomenal, and definitely on par with what was seen fifteen to twenty years ago. That much I can say for certain," she said, turning at the door. "You are an awfully lucky girl, Miss Parkinson," she said, stepping carefully over the threshold of the foyer. "If I were you, I'd stick close to the Weasleys."

"Er," Pansy said.

"Well, thank you Auror Tonks. If there's anything else we can do to be of service to the Ministry, let us know," Pansy's father offered.

"Oh, you can count on it," she said, winking at Pansy before Disapparating from the foyer.

What the fuck? Pansy thought. And then, as if the day couldn't possibly get any stranger, an owl flew through the fireplace, dropped an envelope of familiar pink parchment at her feet, and zoomed back off. Stunned, Pansy bent to pick it up.

"Well, read it out. Let's see what the old bat has to say about this. No doubt she's heard. Network of spies all over hell and earth," Claudia spat bitterly.

"It's a bit early for bile, isn't it? Before breakfast even?" her father asked.

Pansy unfolded the note and skimmed it quickly before reading it out loud. "My dear granddaughter," she began. "Having heard of the recent and no doubt traumatizing events of the previous evening, I do believe that a brief relief in the country would do you well. I will be expecting you at one o'clock for a stay that shall last until you return to Hogwarts. Please pack appropriately. With love, Grandmother Viola."

Pansy's parents said nothing, just exchanged dark looks.

"You're going to say I have to go, aren't you?" Pansy said, looking up from the letter.

"I think it is a punishment befitting the crime," her father said, his moustache twitching slightly.

"Well, fuck," Pansy said, hands falling to her sides in total defeat. She didn't even have time for a proper nap.

"Keep it up, Pansy. Just keep it up," her mother warned, brushing past her into the drawing room. "Fucking hell, I need a smoke."

* * *

"Well," Hermione said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, "if they can just storm into Diagon Alley, and on Christmas, no less, they mean to send a message."

Open to them was what appeared to be a scene from the First War: dozens of masked figures prowled the streets of Diagon Alley in the bright afternoon sunshine. One of them raised his wand and a building crumbled. Another set a shop on fire. Everywhere, people scurried out of the way. And even though Ron couldn't see their faces, he could tell that the Death Eaters were laughing behind their masks. At the bottom of the page were the words, "The Siege of Diagon Alley. November 1, 1981."

"But I don't understand," Ginny said. "This never happened."

"No, it didn't," Hermione said evenly. "But it would have."

"Hang on," Fred said. "So, this is what would have happened? If what?"

"If Harry had died. If Voldemort had won," Hermione said shortly.

Fred made to lift the next page, but Hermione slapped his hand. "You know I don't put much stock in Divination, but I really don't think you want to see what else is in this book, Fred," she warned. "A lot of it is pretty horrific."

"Where did this book come from?" Ron asked, bent double and staring as if transfixed at the small drawing of the siege on Diagon Alley that never happened.

Hermione sighed. "Well, it is a compilation of sorts. Seers, spies, Runic translators, Arithmancers, and all manner of Diviners worked on this book. I just happened upon it by accident when researching my next paper for Runes. It's really quite fascinating."

"Fascinating?" Ron sputtered. "More like spooky."

"So, does it show what else the Death Eaters had in mind?" Ginny asked.

"Yes, as near as anyone can accurately guess."

"Hmm," Fred and George said.

"What?" Ron asked.

"Well, if that's true and it really does show what the Death Eaters had been planning..." Fred began.

"Then it would be like a blueprint for their warfare tactics," George continued.

"Precisely. Like a window into their schizo little heads," Fred surmised.

"A tool, if you will," George finished.

"No," Hermione said, snapping the book shut and holding it to her chest.

"What do you mean no?" Ron asked. "How can you say no?"

"Ron, don't you think if Dumbledore wanted the Order to use this book, he would already have it?"

"Unless he didn't know it existed."

"Of course he knows it exists! It came from Hogwarts!"

Ron opened his mouth in reply, but Hermione was right. "Well... well... well, then he probably wouldn't want you sticking your nose in it, either!"

"Then why didn't he just pull it off the shelf, then?"

"Would you two just make out already?" Ginny screamed. "The tension between the two of you is counterproductive."

"We're over!"

"Gross!"

"I'm not even attracted to him anymore."

"And I don't think you ever were, to be honest."

"Ron, that is so unfair."

"Oh, like running off and snogging the first boy you meet on the platform is fair?" As soon as it was out of his mouth, he knew he had gone too far.

"You pig." And then, surprisingly, Hermione threw the book at him.

"OW!" Ron yelled.

"You are such a child!"

"YOU threw a BOOK at ME!" Ron shouted accusingly, raising the book to throw it back.

And then the Burrow exploded.

Well, not literally. But for all intents and purposes, Ron figured it might as well have. One moment, he was enjoying a good row with Hermione, excepting the book-throwing part, and the next, his mother, newly arrived from Diagon Alley and yelling directives at every Weasley in sight, was twisting off his ear.

"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!" It echoed through the Burrow as if the house had been specially constructed to convey the acoustics of her voice specifically. "What ARE you doing?"

"Bloody hell!" he said, reaching up to free himself from his mother's grasp. "We were just having a discussion!"

"Oh, hello Hermione," his mother said, dropping his ear and smiling sweetly at Hermione, who nodded and said hello back. "'Fraid you've come at a rather bad time. We're just off to Diagon Alley."

"Actually, I was hoping I might come along," Hermione said.

"Oh! Well, I suppose, if your parents know where you are. We'll just be helping with the clean-up efforts. Although," she paused, and her gaze settled on Ron, "I have a special project for Ron." Then her gaze shifted to settle on her daughter, and she added, "And you'll be helping him."

They both opened their mouths to protest, but were quickly silenced.

"Hangover or no, it will serve you right. Out drinking all night! And your sister underage! And, for goodness sake Ron, put on a shirt! I didn't raise my children to be hedonists!" And with that, she marched to the sink and began doing up what was left of the dishes. "We're leaving in three minutes!"

Ron and Ginny looked at each other with that look known between siblings to convey the thought, "I can't figure a way out of this, but at least you'll be suffering with me. Jerk. This is all your fault, anyway."

And so Ron and Ginny, glaring at each other for whatever ill-formed and irrational reasons born of the mutual contempt they had for the situation at hand, and Hermione, smirking at Ron and reserving a look of compassion for Ginny, complied, and found themselves in Diagon Alley within the space of three minutes, for their mother was never one to allow dalliance, even for meals at a time like this. "You had all morning to fix yourselves breakfast, but I suppose you were too busy giving into peer pressure to consider that, weren't you?" she said as she pushed Ron into the fire.

The twins, of course, being the momentary favorites for whatever reason Ron couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around, were allowed to stay at the Burrow and sleep all morning and afternoon while the youngest were sent to clean up their stupid smashed shop in stupid smashed Diagon Alley. And it had been their idea to go last night to begin with! The irony of the situation did not escape Ron as he kicked at the cobblestones in the street.

In Diagon Alley, smoke hung like a fog just above the roofline as an array of people, both Ministry officials and civilians, moved about clearing away the wreckage of the pre-dawn disaster. A layer of filmy, chalk-like dust covered everything in sight, and as Ron's trainers slapped along the surface of the road, which had been completely cleaned of snow, he realized, the dust rose in small puffs, clinging to the hems of his pants and gathering in the cracked polish of his worn-out shoes. Beneath the ripped and bent awning of Flourish & Blotts, several employees were cleaning the surviving volumes while others swept charred bits of parchment and bookbindings across the threshold. Everywhere Ron looked, the shop windows, where they weren't broken, were streaked with the residue of fire, and the facades of stone that still stood were scorched and muddied with the dust that seemed to be everywhere.

When Ron, trailing his mother with Ginny and Hermione at his side, finally caught sight of Gringotts, he understood where the dust had come from. Where there had been stairs was now a sea of tiny white pebbles that spilled out into the street like a river overrun its dyke. Where there had been statuesque white marble pillars, was now empty space. The balcony above the burnished bronze doors was half-gone, probably pulverized and turned to dust. The doors themselves were dented so badly in spots they looked creased. And standing several feet below them, in the space where the steps had been, was a group of ten or so goblins, talking in low voices to one another, seemingly surveying the damage.

"They don't look very happy," Ginny muttered.

"Neither would you if you couldn't reach the door," Ron said.

"Ron!" Hermione hissed.

"Well! They can't, can they? You'd think someone from the Ministry would've brought over a ladder by now."

Ron received a sharp look from his mother. "Your father and I surely never taught you to say such ugly things," she said over her shoulder between gritted teeth.

Ginny nudged Ron hard in the ribs, and he followed her gaze.

To the left of them, a crowd of people had gathered around the entrance of Knockturn Alley, craning their heads to look behind a barrier that had been set up. A man in Ministry robes was calling above the crowd for everyone to please step back.

"Nothing to see here, folks!" he said, just as a flash of red sparks shot up behind him. "Oh, bugger," he said, turning his back on the crowd and disappearing from Ron's view. "All right, Jameson?" Ron heard him yell.

"Mum, what happened in Knockturn Alley?" Ginny asked, as the three of them caught up to their mother, who had hurried along while they had stopped to watch the commotion.

"What? Oh, nothing," she said quickly. "Ministry business, I suspect."

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny exchanged unbelieving looks.

"Ah, Charlie! There you are!" Mrs. Weasley called out as Charlie appeared from around the bend that led to Fred and George's shop, or what was left of it, at any rate.

Charlie, hair whitened by the dust of Gringotts and robes smeared with soot, was eating an apple nonchalantly. "We've had a hell of a time with that dragon," he said, motioning with his half-eaten piece of fruit back over their heads at the mouth of Knockturn Alley.

Ron's eyes widened and he looked back over his shoulder. "Dragon?"

Charlie laughed. "Don't worry. It was only a small one."

"A dragon got loose? In Diagon Alley?" Ginny said, swiveling back to look at Charlie.

Charlie took another bite of apple, letting the juice cut a clean line through the sooty stubble on his chin before wiping it away with the equally dirty sleeve of his robe. "Well," he said, spitting out tiny apple bits, "more like, someone let loose a dragon. It's tranquilized now. Shouldn't be a bother to put back in Gringotts at all."

"Someone let a Gringott's dragon loose?" Hermione said incredulously.

"How are things doing with the shop, then?" Molly said, trying to change the subject.

"More or less," Charlie said to Hermione, and then turned to their mum. "We figure they'll have to replenish 99% of their inventory."

Mrs. Weasley made a noise like a clucking hen, and said, "I knew this shop was a bad idea. Knew it from the start. Nothing but trouble, the two of them."

Charlie rolled his eyes, and began walking down the street to the twins' shop, followed closely by the rest of them, Ron bringing up the rear. When they arrived at number 93, Bill was leaning against the side of the wall where once had stood the door. Now it was just a hole in the wall, next to a larger hole, where had been the window Ron had seen crack the night before. The awning had been completely ripped from the façade; only one bent and charred metal bracket remained.

"Hullo, Mum," Bill said, pushing himself off the side of the hole in the wall and greeting them. "I'm afraid you've got your work cut out for you."

Inside, there was a mess of broken and sullied merchandise, strewn about on the fallen shelves and the split bins. There were oozing things and fuming things, and the faint squawking of some unnamed other thing, not to mention, of course, the horrible smell.

Ron knew that his brothers used a variety of strange and dangerous things in the making of their products, but he never expected that anything so funny (when acted out upon other people, of course) could smell so very bad.

"Not for me," Molly said, giving Ron and Ginny a supremely superior look.

"Oh, no," Ginny said, stepping backward, wrinkling her nose. "No, no, definitely not."

"Oh, come on!" Ron protested, pinching his nose and causing his voice came out squeaky and high. "You can't expect us to clean all this!"

Mrs. Weasley only nodded. Bill and Charlie snickered.

"But I can't use magic outside of school!" Ginny pleaded.

"Yeah! Ginny can't use magic outside of school!" Ron agreed, and added, thinking fast, "It wouldn't be fair if I used magic and she didn't!"

"Oh, he's right about that, Mum," Bill said, nodding. Charlie muttered agreement, and at that point Ron knew he had said something very, very wrong.

"Then I suppose neither one of you ought to use magic then," Mrs. Weasley said, conjuring from her apron pockets a large rubbish bin, two brooms, and a bucket with a half-dozen sponges floating in it. The cleaning things dropped to the ground at Ron and Ginny's feet, sending up a sizable cloud of marble dust.

"Way to go, Ron," Ginny said, shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

"Oh, right, like this is all my fault. Might I remind you who wanted to go to Diagon Alley so badly to begin with?" Ron said flatly, not yet daring to unpinch his nostrils.

"Well, if someone could just keep their fat mouth shut," Ginny said, kicking the bucket over onto his shoes.

"Hey! Watch it!" Ron yelled, jumping backwards.

"Now, now. Play nice," Charlie said as he, Bill, and Mrs. Weasley started to walk away.

"Just where do you think you're going?" Ron demanded.

"To lunch," Bill said. "My treat." He put his arm around his mother's shoulders as they turned their backs on the youngest Weasleys.

"Oh, and Hermione dear?" Molly called over her shoulder, momentarily stopping them in the middle of the street.

"Yes?"

"Try not to help them," she said with a smile, and then began again down the street.

Ron glared at Ginny, and Ginny glared at Ron.

"You know what this means, don't you?" Ron said to her finally.

"We sabotage all of Fred and George's relationships for the next ten to twenty years, forcing them to give up on love and raise cats in their shared bachelor flat overlooking a garden of stinkweed and mallowsweet?"

"That's good, don't get me wrong," Ron said, "but what I was going to say is that you're off Quidditch."

Ginny perked an eyebrow. "Really? I suppose there's nothing for me to do then except tell Mum all about how your girlfriend spent the night in your bedroom, and how you came down the stairs half-naked, looking like you'd just spent all night doing naughty things to one another."

"Excuse me?" Hermione said.

"Oh, not you," Ginny said with an evil look. "It was Pa--"

"Fine," Ron shouted. "You're not off Quidditch, then." He took off his cloak and hung it on the bent awning bracket. "And she's not my girlfriend."

"Right, Ron," Ginny said, taking off her cloak as well. "Whatever you say, Ron."

* * *

Pansy lay in nothing but her knickers, half on her bed, half off, staring unseeingly up at the ceiling of her room at her grandmother's house. Each of the grandchildren had their own rooms at Grandmother Viola's, and Pansy's was decorated in, that's right, pink. The paper on the wall depicted climbing pink blossoms entwining with dark Swedish ivy over a silver background. The bed was bedecked with the palest pink satin, as light as the flesh on the inside of a Pansy's thighs, and the windows were draped in yards and yards of the same color silk. The ceiling was so high that the shadows clung to it yet in the dark afternoon. Self-consciously, Pansy traced the curves of her body with light brushes of her fingertips.

Upon arriving at her grandmother's house, Pansy had been escorted to her room by her grandmother, as if she didn't know the way, and told, pointedly, that the attached bath had been recently re-done with new marble and glass. Pansy took that as a cue to freshen up.

She had spent three hours in the bath, missed tea, and gone so wrinkly in the water she had begun to resemble a prune not just on her fingertips and toes, but also on the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. She had reheated the water several times, poured enough lavender perfume in the bath to pickle herself, and had rather enjoyed herself up until the moment her grandmother, in person, had banged on the door and demanded she start getting ready for dinner.

It was now approaching five thirty, and dinner was to be served at six. Apparently, they were having guests. Pansy figured she needed only about twenty minutes to get ready, contrary to her grandmother's belief that a lady ought to take whatever obscene amount of time to prepare for the evening meal. And so Pansy lay on the bed, contemplating the dip of her body between rib and hip, and how, if she sucked in her belly enough, she could feign an hourglass figure.

She wondered vaguely if Basil still had pornos stashed in his room like he had told her last night. It was going to be a long and boring week at la casa de Viola, and Pansy thought even gay wizard porn would help break up the monotony. Grandmother Viola spent most of her time in the drawing room, reading and gossiping by Floo, and Pansy thought eight days of that would certainly kill her. If she wasn't in so much trouble already, she thought she might write to Morag and ask if she fancied a visit. Morag had liked to take the horses out riding the last time she was there. Not that she and Morag were actually on speaking terms, but it was something to mull over.

Pansy sighed, and moved on to consider the roundness of her breasts.

The doorknob rattled suddenly, and Pansy scrambled to gather her towel around her body. The door flew open, and Pansy sat straight up, staring face to face with Draco Malfoy, dressed in stately black wool robes.

Pansy moved to stand behind the corner of the four-poster, and Draco coughed into his hand, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Excuse me?" Pansy said indignantly.

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything," Draco said, trying to keep a straight face.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, trying not to feel so humiliated. She hadn't been doing anything, regardless of how it may have looked to Draco.

"Your grandmother sent me to bring you down for dinner." He moved to stand with his hands clasped behind his back. With the toe of his boot, he shut the door behind him. "But if you had other plans..."

"Don't be crude," Pansy snapped. "I can't believe Viola would send you up to bring me down. It's highly indecent."

"I don't think she sees it that way," Draco said, stepping into the room.

Pansy took a step backwards, toward her wardrobe, hand clasping the towel tightly to her chest. "Speak plainly, Draco. I haven't the patience for you right now."

"Well," Draco spat arrogantly, "it's perfectly clear what your grandmother's intentions are." With every step she took away from him, Draco took another toward Pansy. "My mother knows what she's up to, you know."

"If you mean that my grandmother thinks there's something going on between us, all the reason more not to let you up here," Pansy said quickly. She took another step backward, and her shoulder hit the edge of the wardrobe.

Draco bridged the distance between them in a few long strides. He was smirking widely now. "Oh, come now. No time to be coy now, is it?" he said, laughingly. His eyes were dancing, and this close up, Pansy could smell the firewhisky on his breath.

"You're drunk," she said bluntly, trying to sink into the wood of the wardrobe doors.

Draco shrugged, and reached a hand around her to open the wardrobe. "Seeing as the lady has not yet dressed," he said, spinning her around and pulling her back against him, "let's pick something out, shall we?" With one hand splayed across Pansy's stomach, holding her against him, he opened the other wardrobe door.

Inside were robes in every shade of pink, some in white, and a few in dark jewel tones. Draco nudged forward, sending Pansy off-balance so that she took a step closer to the wardrobe. The hand against her stomach began to knead and pull back the towel.

Pansy shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. She was getting turned on despite herself, and it annoyed her. "Draco. What are you doing?"

Fingers found the towel's edge and yanked, sending the fluffy white barrier between Pansy and Draco cascading around Pansy's feet. "I think white. Virginal. Bride-like, even," he sneered, bending ever so slightly to nip her ear lobe.

"Fuck you," she said soundly, simultaneously stomping on his foot and elbowing him hard in the ribs.

He doubled over with a sharp, "Ooof!" and Pansy took the opportunity to grab at the robes in the armoire, pulling on the length of silk in her hands until it came free. She pushed Draco backwards, and he landed on his arse in a less-than-elegant pile of limbs.

"Ow!" he hollered as she quickly pulled the robes on over her head and snatched her wand from her bedside table. He scrambled upright, cursing lightly and rubbing his head, which had hit the edge of the bed when she pushed him.

They stood staring at each other for several minutes, Pansy catching her breath, wand drawn, and Draco finger-combing his hair back into place and putting his robes to right.

"What did you do that for?" he asked finally, adopting the Hot Shit Pose and glaring at her.

"You are vile," she hissed. "Attacking me in my own bedroom."

Draco laughed shortly. "I did not attack you," he said. "I was merely helping you get dressed."

"By stripping me?" she asked skeptically.

"It is an essential first step, I am afraid." Now he was smirking, his charming smirk, the one he inherited from his mother. "Surely you weren't planning on wearing that towel beneath your robes all evening?"

"Well, no," she admitted guardedly.

The large grandfather clock in the foyer chimed a quarter to the hour.

Draco tossed his head, getting the hair out of his eyes, and then cocked his head. "Miss Parkinson, you are a mess." He reached forward, lowering her wand with one hand, and adjusted her robes so that they were on straight. He turned her by the shoulder, and he did up the back very quickly, his fingers not even stopping to delay on the soft skin of her back. "There," he said, and Pansy felt him move away, felt his presence fade behind her.

When she turned, he was already at the door. "I'll stall for time," he said, "while you fix your hair and face. Ten minutes," he instructed before slipping out soundlessly.

Pansy looked at herself in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. The dress robes she had pulled out were a deep ruby red brushed silk which made her skin seem alabaster and her hair appear the color of wine in moonlight. When she turned further in the mirror, she saw the trail of tiny buttons that worked halfway up the back, perfectly in a line. She stepped quickly into her best shoes, piled her hair into a messy up-do, and did a few cosmetic charms to bring the color back into her face.

In nine and a half minutes, she opened the drawing room door to find Narcissa Malfoy, dressed in robes of the deepest blue, and her grandmother, dressed in a stately plum, sitting next to each other on one of the brocade sofas near the fire, perusing an album of Pansy's baby pictures. Draco stood behind them, looking bemused as they flipped another page. He looked up, eyes quicksilver gray and just as liquid in the firelight, and smiled. "Pansy," he simpered, "you look stunning."

* * *

Eight buckets of soapy water, six trips to the skip, and many hours later, Ron and Ginny leaned against the crumbled mantel of the now blocked-off fireplace and surveyed their work. They had removed the rubbish, organized what was left, and scoured everything in sight until Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes of number 93, Diagon Alley, looked positively brand new.

Well, brand new in a demolished, post-Apocalyptic way.

Mrs. Weasley and every other member of the family had poked their heads in at one point or another to bring them refreshment, offer advice, or tell them that they'd be back at six o'clock to take them home. Charlie had stayed the longest, sitting behind the counter with his boots up reading a magazine until Ron and Ginny had successfully glared him away and he had wandered off, pointing out a spot of soot they'd missed in their mopping endeavors as he left. Their mother had been the most frequent visitor, however, stopping in between visits to some of the other shop owners to nod or shake her head, or remind them yet again how they deserved this.

"Out gallivanting around with no respect whatsoever for this family's reputation!" she'd said at one point to herself, although Ron and Ginny had heard her perfectly well.

Over the course of the day, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had pieced together some notion of what was going on in London. In Diagon Alley, a massive emergency rebuilding effort was taking place, and almost everyone who worked, lived, or otherwise had vested interest in the community had Floo'd in to offer their help, support, or other forms of compensation. Whizzhard Books had received a sizable donation from an anonymous sponsor to purchase a new press, and all of Florean Fortescue's twelve children, 52 grandchildren, and herd of great-grandchildren had walked along the street, singing carols and handing out sweets to lighten the spirits of those working that day.

The Ministry, so the rumors went, had mounted a special task force of Aurors to track down and apprehend the group of "alleged Death Eaters" who had mounted the attack. Ron had laughed when Hermione had said that. "Alleged Death Eaters? Well, they certainly weren't trying to pass as the Winbourne Wasps, that's for sure."

But that was all several hours ago, and now Ron was just ready to have a bath and go to bed. He would even pass on food for the time being if it meant he'd be clean sooner. He was grimy and filthy, and Ginny, in a particularly mean-spirited moment, had emptied a crate of smashed Canary Creams over his head. In retaliation, he had tackled her into a case of melted Bah-Bah Bon Bons and she had done nothing but bleat for a good hour.

So now the store was clean, and Ron and Ginny stood propped up against the boarded-off fireplace listening to Hermione postulate about what the Death Eaters were really up to.

"The point," Hermione said for perhaps the fourth time in as many minutes, "is that if they can attack Diagon Alley--and get away with it, which seems very likely at this juncture, considering a case gets colder and colder as time passes, and the Ministry is short on leads--what can't they do? It certainly begs the question: What next? Hogsmeade, Muggle London, Hogwarts?"

"Yes, but why?" Ginny whinged, pinching the bridge of her nose between grimy fingers.

"Because they can," Hermione said gravely.

"Hermione, you're giving me the willies," Ron said between stifled yawns. "Makes me feel like no where's safe."

"Maybe no where is safe," Hermione said slowly, and then scribbled something on the notepad she had been writing on all day. "And we can't help that. But we can make some places safer..." She trailed off.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, but she just ignored him, continuing to scribble.

"What if... yes... but, no, that won't work... I need this over here... yes... maybe..." Hermione muttered under her breath.

"What are you doing?" Ron said, leaning over to get a better look at the parchment she was working on. He caught sight of what looked like some sort of map. A map with moving dots. "Hermione, is that--but it couldn't be--Hermione?"

"Huh?" She finally looked up, eyes wild and face smeared with soot and ink.

"Is that what I think it is?" Ron said, pointing to the parchment she had been scribbling on. "Because if it is, he'll kill you for writing on it."

"I'm not writing on it," she said snidely. "I'm fixing it."

"Fixing it? Fixing it to do what, exactly?"

Hermione stood up slowly, tucked her hair behind her ears, and then turned the parchment around for Ron and Ginny to see. Across what had previously been the thin brown lines of the walls of the castle, were now reinforced lines of Hermione's black ink, and up in one corner, where a banner hovered bearing the name, "Harry Potter" was a ring of tiny black dots. "Isn't it cool?" Hermione said, brandishing the Marauder's Map, now showing distinct signs of where Hermione had been "fixing" it.

"Er... what?" Ron asked slowly, not knowing for sure what he was looking at. As far as he could tell, Hermione had just drawn on top of old lines. Nothing fancy in that. "Did you just say cool?"

"God, Ron, do I have to explain everything?" Hermione said, frustrated. She ran her hand over her face, smearing her cheeks with more ink, and said, "If the original map worked in a way that the castle environs were reflected onto the paper and furthermore infused with the essences of the original mapmakers, who is to say that the process couldn't be... shall we say, edited? The map right now is borderline omniscient, don't you think? It can see all of the people inside the castle in relation to where the walls are. And the map can be called upon with certain keywords and can also think on its feet, more or less, like when it insulted Snape third year, remember?"

Ron nodded and wondered vaguely if Hermione was on drugs. Or worse: coffee. He had seen her on coffee once before, on the Sunday prior to their last exams sixth year. It had been spooky. She had started talking to herself and then shaking and fidgeting, and she had nearly killed Neville with an over-produced Transfiguration, but everyone had survived, and someone had produced a downer and slipped it into her pumpkin juice at dinner. Of course, she didn't seem to remember anything being out of sorts, and the Gryffindor boys had taken to referring to it cryptically as "Hermione's Coffee Spell." In retrospect, maybe he should have taken that as a red flag. The girl got a bit freaky and obsessive when it came to her "projects," and their relationship was probably another in a line of many. What he really needed was a girl who didn't try so bloody hard and just let him be.

"Well, the way I figure it, and I think I'm right here, is that the original mapmakers gave these things to the map, but we can give more to the map. I always viewed the map as a having a one-track mind, as giving the reader the information to elude. But what if the map could see more? What if the map was given the information to think tactically, on its feet? We could give it logic, history, and intuition. Instead of it just being a map that can locate people within its environs and give an accurate depiction of their coordinates within the castle, what if the map could know? Beyond facts and figures, what if the map could actually think?"

For a long moment in the growing dim, Ginny and Ron stared at Hermione, Ginny with her arms crossed over her chest, and Ron with his eyes fixed on the dot in the hospital wing now surrounded with dots. He was aware that a line had been crossed at some point. Maybe it was the fact that they were making a decision involving Harry without Harry actually being present. What if they were talking about changing a relic--a relic that Harry held dear, viewed as the definitive symbol of his father's relationship with his best friends, their crowning achievement--an act that was surely sacrilegious? Ron thought of his father's words: Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain. They were talking about dark magic here, weren't they? But this brain would be theirs. It wouldn't be dark magic because they weren't dark wizards. It wouldn't be dark magic because they would use it to fight the dark wizards, if he understood Hermione right, although he still didn't understand how the map could do that.

After a long moment, Ginny spoke. "So, you want to give the map a brain?"

"More or less."

"And this... edited version. It could help keep us safe?" Ron asked.

"When you say 'us' you mean Harry, of course," Ginny clarified.

Ron gulped and nodded, not taking his eyes off the Harry dot in the hospital wing.

"When the map can identify the presences, it can use what it knows--what we tell it--about these presences to know if they are a threat. The map was created with mischief in mind. Now the map will have a purpose. And its purpose," Hermione said, withdrawing her wand and illuminating the hospital wing, "is to keep him safe."

Hermione, of course, was the smartest witch of her age, and Ron could trust her. Even if he didn't understand what she was going on about, he rarely ever did, and she had always gotten them through before. Ron looked up finally, from Harry's brown dot to Hermione's brown eyes, his resolution steeled. "How do we start?"

"First things first," Hermione said, rolling up the map and tucking it back into her notebook, "we get a hold of Professor Lupin."

"Until then," Ginny said, stretching like a cat, "we can have a bath, a big dinner, and some sleep, right?"

Hermione smiled. "I think that would be great. I still have a few things I need to work out before I see Professor Lupin. I can do that this evening, I reckon."

"So, you're staying at the Burrow then?" Ginny asked.

"If that's all right?" Hermione returned.

Ginny broke out into a wide grin and hugged Hermione. "It's good to have you back."

Ron kept his eyes off of the scene in front of him and instead watched the minute hand slowly ascend until it was six o'clock on the nose. Then he announced, "They're late."

"Figures," Ginny said, breaking the hug but taking Hermione's hand in a sisterly show of affection.

"Mutiny?"

"Too tired."

"Bilbox powder in their beds?"

"Incinerated."

"Ton-Tongue Toffees in their tea?"

"George took inventory of those the last time he was in," Ginny said as Hermione made a noise of protest deep in her throat.

"Suppose we could retaliate the old fashioned way, then," Ron said, struggling to keep from shivering. By now, a hush had fallen over Diagon Alley as the various workers had gone home and the residents had shut themselves back into their homes.

"What do you mean?"

"Silent treatment. Veiled threats of violence. Vandalism."

"Ah," Ginny said shortly.

"Aww," Charlie said. "You wouldn't really? Not our sweet young sis and bro?"

Ron and Ginny exchanged a look of intense dislike for their elder brother, but both refused to actually turn and look at the assemblage of Weasleys in the doorframe.

"Just like when they were kids, only without the nappies," Bill said. "Plotting against the rest of us."

Ron slowly raised his hand in the general direction of the voices and gave them the finger.

"Ronald," Mrs. Weasley admonished, but her tone was soft. Ron turned his head slowly and watched his mother enter what was left of the shop and make her way toward them. She stopped within enough distance to stroke Ginny's hair. "You did very well, my dears. Very well."

"Yeah, it only took the two of you ten hours to do what one of us could have done in about, oh, forty-five minutes," Fred said, snickering.

"Well, it taught them a very valuable lesson, I'm sure," George said, not managing to contain his laughter.

"You know what?" Ginny said with a smirk. "You can all just get stuffed."

The four brothers laughed, and Ron, Ginny, and Hermione grinned at each other. It wasn't so unlike the old days.

"Come now, let's go home and have a nice family dinner," their father said, stepping forward finally and putting his arm around Ron's shoulder. He gave him a little shake.

"After the two of you bathe, of course," Mrs. Weasley said, making a face. "What did you do, roll around in it?"

"More or less," Ginny said, glancing down. She opened her hand to reveal a folded glassine envelope containing what could be any manner of strange toxins used in the twins' inventions.

Ron caught her eye, and they exchanged sly grins. "We were more like swimming in it, really."

"Just couldn't get enough of the smell," Ginny agreed as they were herded out the door.

"It really was disgusting, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione joined in. "I couldn't get them to stop."

Mrs. Weasley looked at them strangely. "Have you gone funny in the head?"

"Mum, they've always been funny in the head," Charlie said.

"I reckon maybe the Weasley line ran out of brains before it got to Ron," Fred said.

Ron gave him the finger as well.

"It's been a long day for all of us, I reckon," Mr. Weasley said, putting his other arm around Bill and leading his oldest and his youngest son down Diagon Alley. The gaslights in the street flickered in the dusk, and Ron let his father steer him home.

* * *

Narcissa cut her meat into tiny squares with tiny practiced movements, her spine seeming not to bend, her elbows never resting on the table as she raised each miniscule bite to her brick-red lips. Pansy forgot herself several times, awed watching this woman, Draco's mother, the perfect creature of propriety and grace. How she ever ended up with a cad like Lucius Malfoy boggled Pansy's mind. Although, she supposed maybe even he had his good points. Surely everyone had at least one. She wondered vaguely if Lucius had always had that cane.

Pansy raised her wine glass to her lips again, and watched Draco as he sat beside her at the head of the table. He was definitely up to something. At the head of the table, her grandmother asked Draco yet another question regarding his plans after school, snapping Pansy out of her daze.

"Well," he began arrogantly, charming Pansy's grandmother with another flattering grin, "I had thought of investment wizardry, quite honestly. It is an exciting field, and can be, if one knows what he is doing, rather lucrative."

Pansy rolled her eyes, only to be caught by Narcissa, who raised an eyebrow just slightly.

"The Malfoys have always had heads for futures," she said crisply, laying her fork down at the side of her plate and raising her wine glass to her lips.

"The Blacks were not unknown for their skill with finances," Grandmother Viola acknowledged. "Your father excelled at Arithmancy in his day. His brother as well."

Narcissa nodded. Under the table, Draco's foot found Pansy's, and she shifted away.

"And what does the young Miss Parkinson plan to do after leaving Hogwarts?" Narcissa asked sweetly, turning her gaze once again to Pansy, who had just stuffed her mouth with brussel sprouts.

Draco smirked into his lap, and, as Pansy chewed vigorously, Draco answered in her stead. "Oh, Pansy and I have often talked of our days after Hogwarts," he said airily, refilling his wine glass. "She's a mind to find herself a husband, raise a brood of dark-haired children, and live out her days reading poetry in a rose garden."

Pansy choked, coughed, sputtered, and stared at Draco. Narcissa pursed her lips, amused.

"That's all well and good, Pansy," Narcissa said, dripping honey all over the pronunciation of her name, "but a woman of your potential ought to consider having a life outside of one's domestic obligations. Your mother has something to do with healing, doesn't she?"

There was a twinkle in Narcissa's clear blue eyes that Pansy didn't quite trust. "Yes," she answered honestly, having found her voice. Then she kicked Draco's shin.

Draco knocked the table, causing his wine glass to overturn.

"Oh, Draco," Narcissa sighed.

Viola snapped her fingers, and a house-elf appeared to vanish the mess.

Draco refilled his glass again. "Oops," he said. Pansy felt her chair being tugged in Draco's direction a fraction of an inch.

"You really ought to be more careful, darling," Narcissa said, raising another bite of braised pork to her lips.

Pansy's chair scooted toward Draco another half-inch.

"I've heard," Viola began, "that the Malfoys have donated a large sum to the rebuilding of Diagon Alley."

Another half-inch.

"It was the least that we could do," Narcissa said solemnly.

Another half-inch. Pansy folded her napkin and set it gently on the table next to her plate.

"Events such as these truly bring out the best and the worst in people," Viola intoned.

Another half-inch, and Draco set his linen napkin beside his plate. Pansy palmed her fork and set it stealthily into her lap.

"I couldn't agree more," Narcissa said, her tone laced with remorse. "To think of all those poor people, trying to pick up the pieces of their lives after a disaster such as this."

Pansy's chair didn't move. She was close enough that she could reach under the table right now and jab her fork into Draco's knee, if need be. She turned to look at him, nodding and pretending to be enrapt in the conversation.

"Truly heartbreaking," Viola muttered.

Pansy held her breath as she felt Draco's hand close over her knee and begin to rake up her dress robes. What is with him tonight? she wondered.

"It makes one very grateful for the things they do have," Narcissa said.

Several moments passed without conversation, during which the faint melody of the music being played in the adjoining room disguised the rustle of Pansy's dress robes being inched up her legs. Pansy kept her eyes on Draco, and Draco drank his wine with his free hand.

At the moment he set the glass down on the table, his fingers found the flesh of her thigh. In her defense, she counted to three before pressing the tines into the back of his hand. At once, his hand jerked away, hitting the table, and, in order to distract her grandmother and Narcissa from the look of sheer and utter shock on Draco's face, Pansy stood and said. "Draco, there's something you really must see."

Stunned silence, then, "Pansy, dear," Grandmother Viola said between clenched teeth, "couldn't it wait?"

"No, it really can't," Pansy said, smoothing her robes and touching Draco lightly on the shoulder.

Draco stood up. "Oh, is this that thing you were talking about last term?"

"Why, yes," Pansy said, fluttering her eyelashes and smiling coyly. "It most certainly is."

"I haven't stopped thinking about it since I arrived, honestly," he said, smoothing his own robes and pushing his chair in.

"I bet you haven't," she said. "If that's all right with you, Grandmother?" Pansy asked, turning to look down at her grandmother. "And Mrs. Malfoy, of course."

"Oh, trust not I to stand upon ceremony," Narcissa said, eyes wide, but looking rather amused with the sudden turn of events.

"Excellent!" Pansy grinned and took Draco's hand.

Draco, however, pulled Pansy suddenly to him and kissed her deeply. She tensed, then relaxed, remembering the charade. Just as quickly as it began, it was over. "It was in the library, you said, wasn't it?" he said against her lips.

"Oh, yes," she said somewhat huskily, despite herself. He still held her pressed tightly against him. She nudged him away imperceptibly with her hip, and he stepped away from her, her hand trapped in his, clenched fiercely. Pansy knew, when he squeezed her hand, that he was angry and not controlling it very well at this point.

"I've always said you had a marvelous library," he said to no one as he led her out of the dining room quickly, before either of the matriarchs could protest or remark.

"I don't know what is wrong with you, Draco," Pansy hissed as soon as the door to the library was shut tight behind them, "but you had better start explaining what the hell is going on right this second." She slapped his hands away from where they cruised the contours of her bodice and grabbed his pointy chin with one hand and forced him to look her in the face. "What. Is. Going. On."

Draco sighed, slumped, and somehow landed with his pointy little face in the curve of Pansy's neck. "Oh, come on. Like you don't know."

"Draco, in case perhaps your tour in the hospital wing rendered you in some regard amnesic, we broke up. Six months ago, actually. So if this is about us--"

"No, not us," Draco whispered into her ear. He flicked out his tongue against her neck and then blew out a stream of breath, turning her flesh cold.

She shivered despite herself and didn't protest too much more when one of his hands cupped her bum while the other cupped her breast. Besides, this could be interesting. Draco's lips always got loose when he drank, and in more ways than one. "Who, then?"

"Them," he said darkly, biting her gently--one of his jungle-cat love bites just where her neck met shoulder.

Her head rolled back, knocking softly against the heavy oak door of the library. "Do you love me?" she asked suddenly. "Not because it matters, but because I want to know."

Draco stopped and slowly lifted his head to look her in the eye. "Do you not understand what's going on?" he began, tracing her bottom lip with the hand he had removed from the inside of her bodice. "All around us, it's happening." His eyes had grown dark, so dark, reflecting the roaring amber fire like tiny broken mirrors. "What has been put into motion, we cannot stop. Whatever He wants, He'll have. Including us." His hands were tight now on her shoulders, and at those last words, he plunged his tongue into her mouth and forced her legs apart with his knee, bringing his strong thigh up against her crotch roughly.

She pushed him away gently. She was scared out of her mind, naturally, but the last thing she really wanted to do was make Draco angry, not in the state he was in. "Draco." She began softly, finding her voice through her panic and willing it to be steady, soothing, calm. "Darling." She raised her lips to his again, softly kissing him, lightly kneading his lips with her own until they parted and she tenderly ran her tongue against his, pulling it into her mouth. For a moment, they tangled there, until she pulled away, leaving him slightly breathless. "I'm not yours or His to have."

"But if I want you," he said darkly. Not a question. A statement.

"Tell me why," Pansy said, arching her back as he repositioned himself between her thighs and began lifting his robes.

"Because," Draco said, "I want."

Her hands curled in his hair as he kissed her neck and pressed her against the hard wood of the closed door. His hands were currently occupied as he tore off her knickers--he was always borderline violent in the "throes of passion"--and so with one hand she pulled his hair and he moaned as the last tatters of satin fell to her feet, and with the other, she pulled his wand from his pocket.

As he made to position himself, he raised his eyes to hers again, and she pointed the tip of the wand at the small of his back and whispered, "You can't always have me flat on my back or up against a wall."

Draco's eyebrows contracted fractionally, and then he grabbed her by the hips. "I'll have you anyway I want, Miss Parkinson."

"No," Pansy said, digging the wand tip into the base of his spine and wrapping one of her legs around him, her fingers still ensnared in his hair. He was trapped and he knew it. "Don't you get it? You don't get to have me anymore."

He looked at her incredulously and began to smirk. "I'll have you know--"

"Consopio!" she said, not willing to bear whatever he was about to say. He slumped against her, fast asleep. Carefully, she laid him out on the floor and adjusted his robes before adjusting hers. She did a quick, "Reparo!" on her knickers and pulled them back on. In the hallway, she quickly found what she was looking for in the form of a house-elf.

"Elf," Pansy said imperiously. "Master Draco has apparently had too much to drink. You'll find him in the library. Take care of it. I'm going to bed."

"Yes Miss Pansy!" the elf squeaked and disappeared.

Pansy took the steps up to her room two at a time. In the newly remodeled bathroom, she turned on the hot water and began running the bath. Sitting on the white porcelain toilet, her knees shaking and feeling dirty and ripped and violated, she was sick in the white porcelain sink until she was dry-heaving with tears running down her cheeks, cursing everything in the world that would ever make Draco think that...

She was not his. She had never been. His head was warped by what his father had succumbed to, what lurked in every shadow of Slytherin house (and there were lots of them), what Draco thought was inescapable. And maybe for Draco it was. He had let himself be seduced by it. He was weak. He was weak and had done what everyone had expected of him because he was too stupid to figure out another way. He was weak, and he was going to die like the rest of them, was going to go to war for something he had been brainwashed into believing because he was stupid and couldn't think for himself. He was weak, and he was probably doing this out of spite for Potter and in awe of the father he could never win the approval of because he was too arrogant and too stupid to not be totally infatuated with everything that would destroy him.

She took off her dress and got into the water. It was so hot, it turned her skin pink, but at least it got rid of the traces of him.

He was weak and stupid, and Pansy swore he would never touch her again. Once, she had thought she could save him, make him better. Now she knew better. Some people, she thought now, were beyond saving. Some people deserved the hell they created for themselves.

* * *

After dinner, Ginny, Hermione, and Ron made plans to meet in Ginny's room at one a.m. when they could be sure that everyone was asleep. Of course Ron's parents had allowed Hermione to stay the night, insisting, even, that she finish out her holidays at the Burrow, to which she replied she would consider it, and then winked, actually winked, at Ron. And then Ron had noticed that Hermione was not wearing the sapphire that Terry had given her on her birthday, which made his day just that much brighter, and then he had to tell himself that he was perfectly over Hermione, and if she had broken up with Terry, well bully for her, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of taking her back. Or asking. He certainly wasn't going to ask.

And so at ten after one when Ginny's bedroom door was opened for him and there she was, sitting on the floor with her back against the end of the bed, the tip of her wand the only source of light in the room, the first words out of his mouth, of course, were, "So, what happened with Terry?"

She blinked up at him from where she had been working in her notepad. "Sorry?" Hermione said, hand flying to her throat where the pendant had hung.

Ginny elbowed Ron hard in the ribs, and Ron answered, "Nothing. Nevermind. So, map then?"

Hermione eyed Ron suspiciously and said, "Yes, about the map..."

"Hermione thinks, and I happen to agree with her, that it will take some time to get the map in perfect working order, and since we only have one, and that's the original..." Ginny trailed off, sitting down on her bed.

Ron took a seat next to her. "No mistakes."

"Exactly," Ginny said.

"We have to get it perfect the first time, and I don't want to make any mistakes," Hermione reiterated.

"You've already drawn on the damn thing, haven't you?"

"That wasn't magic, Ron," Hermione sniffed.

Ron bristled and crossed his arms. "Fine. So, between now and then, with the Death Eaters sniffing around looking for more ways to cause damage, how are we going to protect the school?"

"Again, when you say school, you mean Harry, right?" Ginny said, smirking.

"Whatever," Ron said.

"If Voldemort comes after Harry at Hogwarts, do not think for one second that he'll just let everyone else go. He'll destroy anything in his way to get to Harry. We know that. It's happened before. It doesn't matter the cost, so long as they get Harry in the end."

"What do we do, then?" Ginny asked.

Hermione sat up straight, pushing the parchment she was writing on off of her lap and rubbing the back of her neck with one hand. The map was open before her on the floor and she moved her wand over it now. "We need some sort of emergency evacuation plan. The map shows seven different ways out of Hogwarts, most of which are compromised," she mused.

"The one behind the witch is the one Harry uses," Ron said, pointing it out on the floor. "Now, Harry said that these four Filch knows about. This one's caved in, and the Whomping Willow we can't use."

"Why not?" Ginny asked.

"Wormtail," Hermione and Ron answered in tandem.

"Hmm," Ginny said.

For a moment they all sat in silence, looking over the map. Ron racked his brain, trying to see beyond the walls, trying to see its secrets. The longer he stared, though, the more everything dissolved into squiggles and shapes, and he couldn't make heads or tails of it.

"Isn't there," Ginny said slowly, eyes focused on the bottom of the map, on the dungeons, "a rumor that there is a passage in the dungeons that leads under the lake into Hogsmeade? Didn't I read that somewhere?"

Hermione and Ron looked at each other and then looked at Ginny. "No..." Hermione began. "I don't think so. I'm sure I would have remembered something like that."

"No, it was built in the beginning as a means to escape in case the Muggles came to torch them," Ginny said, adamantly nodding her head. "I'm sure of it."

"Oh," Hermione said suddenly. "You're channeling Tom Riddle."

"Shhh! Hermione!" Ron whispered.

Ginny, meanwhile, had gone plate white. Her eyes were wide and wet and looked strangely dark in the wand light. "I can see it in my head like a painting. Like a vision."

"Can you point it out on the map, Ginny?" Hermione asked softly.

Ron gave her a look. This was his kid sister, after all. They had all tried for so long to forget what happened. They never talked about it, not after that first summer. It was taboo. No one wanted to remember the year Ginny became a monster. It just wasn't polite.

Ginny looked over the map, then shut her eyes and stretched out her hand. She traced the lines of the dungeon walls, stopping several times and opening her eyes to look at where her fingers had taken her, her eyebrows knit. Then she'd close her eyes and try again. She did it several times, and then finally snapped open her eyes to see her fingers trailing their way through the kitchen. "Oh, balls," Ginny said. "I can't do it. Maybe if I could actually see the walls..."

"You know, to be perfectly honest, I'd be loads more comfortable if you could just forget that whole Tom Riddle thing ever happened. It freaks me out." Ron shivered.

"Look, if there is a secret passage through the dungeons and Ginny knows about it--even if she knows via some unfortunate event that we all wished had never happened--shouldn't she use it now, to help us, to help Harry? Doesn't it almost give the experience some meaning? If she can use his own tricks against him?" Hermione said earnestly, looking at Ron with that expression on her face like he really was the stupidest teaspoon of a boy she had ever had the misfortune to meet.

And he suddenly was reminded of everything he hated about Hermione: her self-righteousness, how she dumbed things down for him, how she got so bloody obsessed with things that she acted crazy and there was no way to get through to her. There were lots of great things about her, he knew this, and he still loved her for them, but good God, couldn't she just pretend that Ron wasn't the stick in the mud of every picnic she ever had fail? Was it so much to ask for someone to love him, not in spite of his faults, but partly because of them?

"Listen, Ron," Ginny said very softly. "He was inside of me. He did things to my brain. You don't know. You could never understand. No one wants to forget about him more than I do, believe me. But I can't. I just can't. And if I can use him like he used me, even if it is to just find some stupid passage out of the castle, well, it's a sort of vengeance, isn't it? When someone penetrates you like that, it's not just forgive and forget, big brother." Ginny had taken on that scary tone in her voice, that high-tension scary, out to take over the world voice, that angry voice, that "you tore the arms off my dolly and now you're going to pay" voice. Ron was afraid of it then, and Ron was afraid of it now. "I made a vow. A vow that he would never get away with this. You just don't do that to a person and expect to get away with it. Any way I can, I'll get him in the end." She was positively shaking with anger, and Ron could feel her power rolling off of her in waves.

"Okay, then," Ron said quietly. "So, we need to get back to the castle and find that passage. How do we do that?"

"Leave that to me," Hermione said, beginning to fold up the map. "I am Head Girl, after all. How does New Year sound to you?"

That night when Ron lay in bed, trying to fall asleep but failing spectacularly, he realized how lucky he was to have two of the most powerful witches of the age on his side. They were downright scary. With their powers combined--Ginny's righteousness and Hermione's book smarts--urging them onward in pursuit of what was right, well, really, how could they not win this war?

And then Ron realized that that might have been the first time he had actually thought about this as war, and just thinking about thinking about this whole thing as war gave his stomach a violent turn.

"So much for sleeping," he said, kicking off his blankets and sitting down on the windowsill to watch the clouds move across the dark sky and think about Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.

It was mid moon cycle, so Ron figured Lupin right now was at headquarters, maybe poring over documents and maps, trying to predict the Death Eaters' next move, or maybe he was out hunting down those responsible for yesterday's attacks. Either way, he wasn't unlike Hermione, the collected, bookish one with a head for logic. Sirius, on the other hand, had been the reckless one. The one with a temper, but the most loyal. Sirius was to James as Ron was to Harry, and Ron would die fighting to protect him if need be. If Harry were ever killed--God forbid, and Ron felt traitorous even thinking about it--Ron would avenge his best friend with his dying breath, if it came to that.

Ron groaned and put his head in his hands. He was getting a headache, whether from lack of sleep or from all of these thoughts, he couldn't be sure. Tears were pricking his eyes, and a tightness in his chest was robbing him of air. He sucked in a deep breath, meant to calm, but instead choked on it and began to sob. He opened his eyes to the darkness inside his palms, and he whispered what was maybe a prayer or a wish meant for the moon shrouded with cloud.

"Please, if you have to take him, take me instead. He can't die. If he dies, I'll die anyway, so you might as well have me instead. Please, oh please, please whoever or whatever you are, please don't take him from me. I'll do anything. Just please, please don't let him die."

Similar words on a similar night whispered into dirty palms sixteen years ago were once uttered by a dead man, but of course, Ron had no way of knowing that, just like he had no way of knowing that somewhere in England someone whispered "Finite Incantatem!" and a boy-turned-man sat straight up in his hospital bed and croaked, his throat dry and hoarse from disuse, "Sirius."