The Annals of Terry Boot

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favour fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

~Robert Frost, "Fire and Ice"

April 7th

9:30--N.E.W.T. Level Potions . . . Oh, the thrills!

With the Slytherins nonetheless. All three of them: Nott, Zabini, and Malfoy.

The rest haven't the marks to get into N.E.W.T. level . . .

Anthony is beside me, his nose practically scraping the parchment as he takes furious notes. Prof Snape is lecturing on the very complicated draught we are about to create with our partner. And he actually think we're listening, poor chap.

Well, Anthony's the exception.

Michael's sitting beside Nott, and he crosses his eyes as if to say, "Why am I stuck with a Slytherin?"

I shrug back, pretending to look sorry for him.

Nott is turned around in his seat, snickering about something with Malfoy. Beside Malfoy, Zabini is curled up in his chair, resting against the wall, reading a book and ignoring the rest of the world.

"Psst. Zabini." Malfoy prods him in the side.

Zabini looks up from his reading.

I'm watching in dull half-interest. God, this class is boring. To amuse myself, I decide to imagine what sort of pyjamas Prof Snape wears . . . Maybe a sort of long nightshirt, or plaid flannels . . .

Michael is making folded-paper swans.

Malfoy presents Zabini with what looks like one of those little square gift boxes you give jewelry in, with a gold ribbon tied around it.

I can just imagine it now: "Blaise, darling, even though I'm an arrogant ratfink, will you take this ring and say you'll marry me?"

Anthony glances up from his note-taking. "Did you just ask me to marry you?"

I give him a Look. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last girl on earth."

He doesn't reply, but then again, there really isn't any proper response to that sort of thing.

"Happy birthday," Malfoy is saying to Zabini.

Zabini slowly undoes the ribbon the box, as Malfoy smirks at Nott and Nott smirks back. Zabini lifts the lid off. Malfoy and Nott muffle their laughter.

He pushes the box away and put up his hand. "Professor? May I switch partners? Draco is having diffculty with the basic principle of this potion, and I'd rather not risk being sent to the hospital wing with boils again."

Prof Snape looks annoyed. "I was talking, Zabini."

"Five points from Slytherin," I mutter.

"However, if it's so important, I suppose you can . . . Yes, you and Goldstein can switch partners." He smiles nastily. I can't decide who he thinks he's punishing. Most likely Zabini, because Prof Snape hates me, so therefore sticking anyone with me would be his idea of torturing them.

Logical, isn't it?

Zabini and Anthony switch seats, but Zabini leaves his "birthday gift" behind. When Anthony sits down, he takes what was probably supposed to be an inconspicious glance inside. A look of puzzlement passes across his face.

Beside me, Zabini is back into his book.

Eventually, Snape gives up and tells us we have the next hour to produce a Draught of Needles.

As we begin working, Zabini studies me thoughtfully.

"What?" I snap at him.

"It's Terry, isn't it?" He extends his hand. I don't take it. "I'm Blaise."

Really! It's one thing to pretend not to know me, but we have been in classes together for nearly six years.

"Are you? I'm fascinated," I rejoin dryly, measuring out spider's legs and tossing them into my cauldron.

"Do we have Advanced Muggle Studies together?" he continues, determined to sound conversationally remote.

"No." Advanced Muggle Studies? A Zabini is studying Muggles?

"Oh, I thought we might." He shrugs and begins chopping asphodel.

"We don't," I say, "but I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before." I smack myself in the forehead as if I've just recalled something. "Oh, that's it! It was at my unc--"

He silences me with a glare.

"It was at the duelling club in second year," I amend.

"Of course it was," he murmurs, sprinkling the asphodel into my cauldron.

Of course it was. And my name's Albus Dumbledore.

What a Slytherin.

"Of course it was," he repeats, as if to himself. "Of course it was, Madame Blue."

My God, he has nicknames for himself. That delves into the realm of supremely creepy. "Who the hell is 'Madame Blue?'"

He half-smiles and looks at me. After a few seconds, he says simply, "You have blue hair."

Oh . . . Great. Now I'm Madame Blue, am I? What's next, Madame Chartreuse?

If he's going to call me anything other than "Boot," why couldn't he choose something cool and incredibly manly, like, say, "Antonio?"

Right, of course. Because me and "incredibly manly" don't seem to mix.

7:30--R.A.B.B.I.T.

Ravenclaw Adolescent Boys Being Incredibly Trite. Either that, or Really Annoying Boys Bitching In Tower. I prefer the second version myself. It's more accurate.

But we are trite, I'll grant Anthony and Michael that much.

I had originally suggested "T.O.O. S.A.D." for our official acronym, but something about them being "Terry's Obnoxious Onuses Smoking And Drinking" bothered them. Anthony said I must have gone to a thesaurus for that one.

Anyway, here we are, on Michael's bed, at the end of the first week of every month, doing all of the above in our dorm room: being trite, bitching, smoking, and drinking.

Actually, we divide it up a bit: Anthony does the bitching, I do the smoking, and Michael drinks. We mostly smoke and drink, I think, to make Anthony's complaining tolerable.

He's currently going on about some girl that apparently doesn't notice him--I think it might be Mandy, but I stopped paying attention awhile ago.

Michael starts laughing. "You know, we all had to work with a Slytherin today in Potions . . ."

For the life of me, I can't figure out why this is so funny. "Yes, so, what's your point?"

"Well . . ." He takes a drink from a bottle clutched in his hand. Firewhiskey, maybe. It's almost empty. "I don't know. It was just funny."

"No, it wasn't."

"It was!"

God, this is stupid. Anthony's still talking about his girl thing. I want to hit him over the head with the Monster Book of Monsters and scream, "Nobody cares about you and your problems! Michael and I are not agony aunts! Michael, as a matter of fact, is a bit tipsy right now, or so it would seem, and I'm just a little stoned! So shut your trap, you ranting pustule!"

But something tells me that wouldn't be nice. I also can't remember quite what I just thought.

"Is Zabini as bad as Nott?" Michael asks me.

"At what?"

"At . . ." He gestures broadly, sloshing firewhiskey on his counterpane. "At that."

"At conducting a symphony?"

"You're not listening to me!" Anthony gives us a dark look. As if he's the centre of the universe.

"You're not the centre of the universe," I say.

He makes a face at me.

"Who is the worst Slytherin?" Michael says, pronouncing each word carefully.

"Malfoy!" Anthony smiles, ready to be off complaining again. "He's haughty and prejudiced and elitist and . . ."

Too many words. "So you're basically saying he thinks he's better than everyone?" I interrupt.

"Well, in so many words," he admits.

Something strikes me. "Hey, Goldstein, what was in Zabini's box?"

"What box?" Michael asks. Really, he can so dense. He was sitting right in front of Zabini at the time.

"Malfoy gave Zabini a box," I explain. "A birthday box. For his birthday. Unless of course, it wasn't really his birthday and Malfoy was just saying that because--"

Michael tells me to shut up.

Shrugging, Anthony says, "All that was in there was a razor blade."

I frown. "Just the blade?"

Anthony shrugs again and nods. "Maybe because Zabini doesn't shave yet. Or something. He always seemed to me to be not throughly through puberty."

I stop listening.

Suddenly I feel cold all over. It seems that I'm not the only one that Malfoy's trying his blackmail game on.

April 9th

11:47--Debating lunch.

According to Anthony, eating is necessary for human survival. Sometimes I doubt him. Then again, as he's pointed out on numerous occasions, I pretty much live off eclairs.

"Terry!"

I turn to Hermione waving me over to her. Weasley is, of course, at her side, holding her non-waving hand.

What do I say? What does she want? Do I play cool and indifferent, as if I don't care about her and Weasley and her and Weasley? Or do I try professing my love again? But do I love her? I mean, really?

"You called, O Angel of Beauty and Wonder?" That wasn't what I was aiming for.

"Angel of Beauty and Wonder?" she repeats, raising her eyebrows.

Weasley glares at me.

"It's a quote from, ah, Baudelaire." Which it isn't.

"Is he one of the ones you read aloud?" Weasley asks.

"What?" How did he know?

"In Herbology once, you said you read French poetry aloud." He shoots me the wary glance he seems to have designed especially for me.

Oh, right. I think I did.

"Why weren't you in History of Magic today?" Hermione asks.

"Because I find that class as exciting as sun-dried earthworms." Weasley snickers and Hermione looks disapproving. "I mean, I wasn't feeling well. In addition to the boring part. Because it is boring."

"Binns gave us the grades on our oral reports today."

Weasley cringes. I could have told him and Potter that doing dramatic re-enactments of goblin revolts was a bad idea.

"How did we do?" I ask.

"We got a ninety-four." She look a bit disappointed.

"Hey, that's a good grade," I say. "And it's probably all because of the extra research you did. I mean, look at my half of the project! I got all philosophical and symbolic, and it probably ruined the whole thing--"

She was shaking her head. "No, no. I asked Binns and he said that was the best part! He told me that he realizes now that just having excessive information isn't enough, you've got to know what it means, too, and understand the significance."

Really? It was? Me? I did that? "Er, well, thanks, Hermione."

"He's dead," she says. "He wasn't supposed to change."

"Yeah," Weasley agrees. "Now he wants to be interesting." He smiles a bit. "Way to go, Boot."

10:04--Ought to be in bed.

But, however, am not.

Wandering the halls can be fun. If you hear someone coming, you can always pretend you're sleep-walking. They never buy it, but it's still a laugh.

"I see I'm not the only one out after hours," someone says behind me.

Zabini.

He's like my own freckled Eumenides.

"What are you doing awake, Zabini?"

"What are you doing awake, Boot?" he replies, smiling angelically.

"Thinking."

"So am I." His voice is cool, indifferent, aloof.

"All right then."

He's sitting in a window frame, glowing blue and ghostly in the moonlight, but he climbs out and stands in front of me, still smiling. "Want to take a walk?"

With Zabini? Not really. "I guess so. Where?"

His smiles broadens slowly like a cat about to pounce. "Just around."

10:25--Down by the lake.

"What happened to you not being my friend?" I ask.

He sighs. "I'm looking at stars with you, not having a heart-to-heart talk."

I'm lying on my back in the grass, gazing up at the night sky. Zabini is doing the same several feet away.

"I'd look at stars with anyone," he continues.

"Even Malfoy?"

I hear him sit up. "If you want to leave, just go. I didn't force you to come down here."

Sheesh. Touchy.

Then I remember Malfoy's "birthday gift."

"I'm not leaving," I say.

"I didn't think you would."

He rolls over in the grass until his head is inches from my shoulder.

"Where is this going, Zabini?"

He turns over onto his stomach and props his chin up on his elbows. "Relax, Boot. I'm not going to ask you to do anything."

His dark hair is tousled and he's almost strangely attractive, with the moonlight bleaching his skin. Then I realize that if Zabini looks pale, I probably look whiter than snow--like death itself.

I've never been what one would call tan. Or even peach. I think it's the result of living of eclairs and staying out of the sun. Being pale and thin, like the guy on Finnigan's poster. Ziggy Whatever.

"What was in the box Malfoy gave in you in Potions the other day?" Why am I torturing Zabini like that? I know what was in the box.

He scowls and his eyes turn cold. "Nothing."

Stretching and yawning, I say, "Fine. Whatever. Do you think I should dye my hair a dark red-violet?"

"I don't care. It's your hair." He looks away, across the lake. "Do you really like Granger?" Before I can answer, he adds, "The whole school knows. At least, the whole sixth year."

"I suppose. But she's with Weasley now, so, you know, so much for that. But there are others . . . There will be others."

Zabini laughs softly and touches a strand of my hair, spread around my head in the grass like an electric blue nimbus. "Whatever you say, Madame Blue."

"You're such a Slytherin."

He cocks his head to the side.

"I never know when to listen to you and when to read between the lines."

"That's not a Slytherin thing. I feel the same way about you. I think it's a not-trusting-people thing."

"Who said I don't trust people?" I retort.

He shrugs and rolls onto his side, still studying me thoughtfully. "No-one. But I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. Has that bruise faded yet?"

"I'm not going to take my robes off to show you."

He chuckles. It's not warm and inviting like Finnigan's. In fact, it's nearly sinister. "Of course not. I was merely inquiring after your well-being."

"Zabini?" I turn onto my side to face him.

"Hmm?"

"I've always kind of wondered if . . . at my uncle's . . . if you're imagining--who you're imagining--that I am."

He's silent for a long time until, finally, he says, "I'm not sure you want me to answer that."

"Are you going to say Professor Snape or something? Because that would be sick and wrong--"

Zabini puts his fingertips over my mouth to shut me up, then pulls them away, muttering, "Now they're all lipsticky . . ."

"I don't think that's a word."

He laughs and kisses me.

"Damn it, Zabini, what did you do that for?"

He looks up at the sky. "You."

"Pardon?"

"I pretend it's you."