The Seventh Sinner

Part I: Five Things

. Blaise paused at the door, ran a hand through his hair, and knocked.

There was no answer, so he pushed it open and went in.

For the first few months, Seamus had left the walls of his dressing room bare, saying that it was only temporary, that he was getting a Ministry job, that he just had to wait for the paperwork to go through. Now, a year later, the room was plastered with photographs of David Bowie, of nameless kohl-eyed boys he'd known or wished he had, of the Irish countryside, idyllic and emerald. Seamus had seen less of the Irish countryside then Blaise had; he'd told Blaise once that he was born and raised in Belfast.

It was no longer a temporary room for a temporary job, in a temporary life. It seemed that even Seamus--even the forever-optimistic Seamus Finnigan--had given up hope.

"What are you tonight? Darla Diamante?" Blaise arched an eyebrow at the figure seated at the vanity.

"I'll have you know," Seamus answered, brushing rouge over his cheekbones, "that I would never use such a camp name." He turned around to look at Blaise, his thousand rhinestones catching the light, his glitter eyeshadow sparkling. "What are you doing here?"

"Carrying out this sinecure of a job they gave me: I'm performing my duties as stage manager of this fair establishment." Blaise paused. "You're on in thirty-one minutes."

"Thanks for the warning, buddy. I appreciate it."

"I don't suppose you know who'll be coming to the club tonight?"

"Been sneaking peeks at the guest list again?"

"You would, if you knew where they kept it." Blaise sank onto Seamus's sagging leather divan. "But no. I just happened to answer the phone for a last-minute reservation."

"You're going to wait until I salivate with anticipation before you tell me, aren't you?" Seamus smiled. "In that case, you'll be waiting a long time--I just did my lipstick."

Blaise shrugged. "Fair enough. It's an old flame of yours."

"How old?"

"About eight years old."

Seamus laughed. "I might be a lot of things, Blaise, but I'm not a pedophile."

"You know what I meant," Blaise shot back.

"I know, but we were only fifteen eight years ago, and the only person I was doing anything with was--" Seamus broke off, his green eyes going wide. "Oh, good God. It couldn't be. Blaise, you're not telling me that Fred Weasley is coming here tonight? Tonight?"

Blaise nodded. Somehow, breaking the news to Seamus had seemed much more rewarding inside his head an hour ago when he'd first hung up the phone.

Seamus took a deep breath and examined his long scarlet fingernails. "I need a drink."

"Edith will kill you if you go on drunk. Again."

"Edith's a fat old cow and she can kiss my arse."

"She also owns the club and can fire your arse."

Seamus sighed and adjusted his stockings. Then, with a devilish smile, he said, "Blaise, you're half-wrong. You're right in saying that I would read the guest list if I knew where Edith kept it, but you're wrong on the if part. I know where they keep it. I was reading it just this morning, as a matter of fact." He eased in his feet into a pair of rhinestone-studded stilettos and stood up. "And, I wasn't going to tell you, but your favourite magazine columnist is going to be at the table closest to the bar and he's bringing along whatever underage boy-toy he happens to be bedding this week."

Seamus saw Blaise stiffen and close his eyes briefly. "Then I suppose," he said in measured tones, "that my favourite magazine columnist has a lot in common with your Weasley. Fred Weasley's bringing along Ginger Phelps. Or, should I say," he continued, adopting an exaggerated American Southern accent, "Jinjahhh Fay-ulps?" When he saw Seamus's blank expression, Blaise elaborated: "He's eighteen as of last month, he's the heir to the great American Insta-Potion fortune, and he's reputed to sleep around almost as much as you."

"Thank God!" Seamus burst out sarcastically. "I finally have competition!"

"Well, you've got a seven-year head start, too."

"So have you and you've done absolutely nothing with it. Wait a second." Seamus snapped his fingers. "I remember this Ginger Phelps, I think. Wasn't he the one mentioned in the back pages of the papers way back when as being the little boy Draco Malfoy was caught buggering in the Three Broomsticks the day before the Death Eaters killed him? Killed Malfoy, I mean? That was, what? Three years ago, right at the end. And I--Blaise? Are you all right?"

Blaise buried his head in his hands. "I don't want to talk about Draco Malfoy or his death," he informed Seamus savagely.

"Why . . . Why not? You had nothing to do with it. You couldn't have done anything to stop it. You were in Italy, remember? Working in your family villa, converting it into a hospital, a refuge for our side. You and Ted Nott, both. I remember how guilty I felt when I saw what you were doing. Back in school, I'd always thought you two--and Malfoy, especially Malfoy--would be the first in line to sign up with Voldemort when he returned." He paused. "Anyway, there was nothing you or anyone could have done about Draco Malfoy. Some ratfink told the Death Eaters where he was--Nobody saw it coming."

"Nobody saw it coming," Blaise repeated. "Almost nobody. Do you want to know who that 'ratfink' was?"

Seamus stared. "How would you know? Nobody knows who it was."

"Almost nobody. It was our favourite magazine columnist." Blaise laughed mirthlessly. "Don't look so shocked, Pollyanna. You've got to stop believing that 'people are basically good'. People are only basically good when it's not more profitable to be basically evil."

"Oh, and what you did was profitable? Did your family gain anything from helping us? You lost everything."

"I wanted to lose everything. I wanted to lose everything, lose everything my family stood for, maybe get killed. But, no, then I might get labelled a martyr, a hero, and maybe they'd name a wing of St. Mungo's after me when they rebuild it. After the brave young Healer-in-training that saved the lives of so many of . . . blah blah blah. And I don't want that."

"You don't know what you want, pal," Seamus muttered, rummaging though a drawer in his vanity. "Here, have a drink." Tossing a flask of whiskey to Blaise, he continued, "Even if he did turn Malfoy in, it doesn't mean anything. Not necessarily. Maybe he was tortured, maybe it was the Imperius Curse or Veritaserum or--"

"Or maybe it wasn't," Blaise cut in bitterly. "You're on in eighteen minutes now."

"Don't think of it. Don't think about what he did--or might have done. In fact, I kind of wish I hadn't told you he was coming tonight. I wish we hadn't opened that old wound. That I hadn't even looked at the guest list and known he was coming myself. Sometimes I wonder if it's a good idea for us to work so close to each other. We can't do anything for each other, can we? All we can do is remind each other of things we want to forget and avoid talking about them. Drink, damnit. You need it." He took a long blond wig from a mannequin's head and put it on, carefully arranging the golden ringlets around his face. "We've been seeing each other every night for a year now, you know. I suppose we should be friends by now."

"We should be. But have we ever bothered to see each other during the day? Do we have anything in common? Do you know anything about me? Really. Name five things you know about me. I don't know if I know five things about you."

Seamus sighed. "Come on, I haven't time for this. I'm on in--"

"Sixteen minutes. Plenty of time for you to think of five little measly things you know about some you 'should be friends with'." Blaise took a long drink and waited.

"You crack your knuckles."

"That's one." Blaise took another drink.

"You chew your left thumbnail when you get nervous."

"Two." He took another swallow of the whiskey.

"You squeak when you sneeze."

"Oh, God." Blaise drank again. "That's three. They're all absolute crap, though."

"You wear women's underwear."

"I don't either!"

"Last Tuesday: pink with lace. Last Thursday: black thong with lace. Last Saturday: red with ribbon roses and black lace. You have a thing for lace, don't you?"

"I--I--How did you know?"

"I have x-ray vision." Seeing that Blaise was about to protest, Seamus explained with a patient smile, "Blaise, if you want to keep your underwear secret, either you don't bend over, or you make sure that your pants are high enough and your shirt is long enough to hide it when you do."

"Why were you even looking?"

"Because I've become a dirty old man before my time and you have a great arse."

"Oh, good Lord." Blaise drained the last of the flask. "I can't believe you. Anyway, that was only four."

"I'm not finished."

"Well, then pray continue."

"And, fifth, you have no sex life!" Seamus smiled triumphantly.

"And you have enough for twelve people."

"Fair enough." Seamus smiled at Blaise.

"You're on in nine minutes now."

"I'd better get going, then. What are you planning to while I'm on stage?"

Blaise shrugged. "I'm not going to go talk to him, if that's what you're thinking."

"It is. I mean, I know you aren't going to do it intentionally, because I know you won't want to have to deal with treating his arm candy like an actual person, but I know you'll want to get a look at him and then he might see you, or you might get upset and--I think you'd better stay here. You've had a little more to drink than I would have recommended, so I think I'll lock you in."

"You wouldn't!"

"And when I come back, maybe I'll ring up a nice call-boy for you. You should really get laid, you know. I think that's your problem. You're twenty-three and for all I can tell, you're still a virgin."

"I'm not!"

"Was this the doing of You-Know-Who?"

"Lord Voldemort?"

"No, you prat. You know perfectly well who I'm talking about. I'm talking about everyone's favourite magazine columnist. I'm talking about Terry Boot."

He didn't want to step out of the shadows. He knew that the moment the spotlight hit him, he's be trapped onstage. Trapped onstage in front of Fred Weasley.

And Terry Boot.

"Are you still doing 'Anything Goes' and 'If I Were a Bell' and that whole set?" Mycroft asked from behind him.

Seamus shook his head. "As of exactly twelve seconds ago, I'm doing 'Time' and . . . And 'I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles'. And the second half of the Somebody-to-Love rock chick set."

"'I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles'? I thought you hated that song."

"I changed my mind. And I'll do that one first."

"What a prima donna."

Seamus kissed him on the cheek. "I know. But you love me, don't you?"

"Ha. But if I don't, who will?"

Out in the club, the lively chatter and bland music died out.

"Showtime," Seamus murmured, flicking a wayward curl off his forehead.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he heard Edith say. "Well, mostly gentlemen." There was a smattering of polite laughter. "It is my great pleasure to introduce to you tonight the star of our sky, the belle of our ball--"

"Oh, get the fuck on with it," Seamus whispered with a roll of his eyes.

"--A diamond among opals . . . Our one, our only, Miss Katrina Winslow!"

Applause, catcalls, whistles . . .

Seamus could never quite bring himself to hate that sound. Nor could he ever enjoy it.

Especially not tonight, when he knew that one of the men clapping, one of the men whistling and cheering, was Fred.

Maybe--damnit--maybe if I'd stuck with those old songs, those standards, he wouldn't recognize me. At least, he wouldn't know for sure. I've really done it now, haven't I?

Was this the sound of your past catching up with you--A crescendo of piano notes rolled out by Mycroft off to stage left as the clapping dies down?

Taking a deep breath and feeling that it hadn't done a bit of good, Seamus stepped out onstage.

The cheers erupted once again, but Seamus silenced them with a languid wave of his hand, the bracelets circling his arm catching the spotlight.

"Hello, loves," he said, managing to be all at once condescending and endearing. He was never sure if he was really either one, but they bought it. They bought everything. "I do hope you weren't bored listening to Edith going on. She does tend to prate, doesn't she?"

They laughed.

He smiled at them all, smiled a slow feline smile that he'd practised before a mirror. It was Blaise's smile, or had been once. Back when they were just schoolboys and he still knew how to smile, even if it was in that aloof, predatory way.

He smiled at them all, letting his eyes rake the crowd in the dark club. Don't look too hard for Fred; you don't really want to see him. "You might remember a great man once said, 'Life is too important to be taken seriously.' It is, I suppose, why I'm singing what I am tonight." A man in the table closest to the stage was gazing at him. Seamus blew him a kiss before nodding to Mycroft. "Take it away, boy."

The song was faster, more upbeat, sillier and more innocent than his usual fare.

"When I wake up," he sang, "well, I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the one who wakes up next to you . . ." He found himself altering the words without thinking.

He had the sort of full, rich voice that would have been better suited for playing romantic male leads in musical theatre. But you couldn't make a living in musical theatre. Not these days.

You couldn't make a living as a two-bit drag act, either--You had to be a star.

Seamus was lucky for Edith, then. Lucky that when she decided to open The Seventh Sinner, she wanted someone fresh, someone new, someone who had never been seen before.

Seamus had never worn a dress before. He had never wanted to.

And now he was still getting used to the fact that sometimes--just sometimes--he enjoyed it. Now there was something to write home about : Dear Mother and Father, Today I opted for the "rhinestone-drenched showgirl" look, with glossy scarlet lipstick and fingernails to match. My schoolboy sweetheart is in the audience tonight, but I promise I won't sleep with him. I prefer total strangers. Speaking of which, at some point in the past few months, I moved from being merely bisexual to entirely gay. Or, as Blaise said, "Sometimes I think you're almost gayer than me." And that's pretty damn gay. Your Loving Son, Seamus Comhghall Michael Finnigan . . .

He hadn't spoken to them since . . . Well, I suppose since I graduated Hogwarts. God. Six years.

"And I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more," he finished with a flourish. "Just to be the one to walk a thousand miles to fall down at your doo-o-oor!"

Curtsying and tossing his blond curls, Seamus signalled to Mycroft to begin those haunting notes that began "Time" . . .

"Time is waiting in the wings," he told them with a wistful smile. "He speaks of senseless things. His script is you and me, boy . . ." Seamus had perfected that walk, slinky and sexual and a complete facade. "Time, he flexes like a whore, falls wanking to the floor--" He ran a hand over thigh, catching the edge of his skirt, pulling it up, biting his lower lip and trying not to picture Fred Weasley watching.

"Zabini! What did you get Terry for Christmas?"

"Wouldn't you like to know. Are you going to just stand there, watching me read?"

"Are you going to tell me what you got Terry?"

"No."

"Then yes. I am. . . . Did you get him something good?"

"No, I got him something horrible. Of course I got him something good."

"How about I just go through your trunks and find it?"

"You want me to kill you?"

"What, did you get him women's underwear?"

"Bugger off, Malfoy."

"Well, what else can you give Terry?"

"Me."

"He's already got you."

"Didn't expect you to understand . . ."

"Oh! I get it. This is one of those I-give-myself-to-you-mind-body-and-soul bits, isn't it?"

"If you must."

"I knew you two would get around to deflowering each other eventually!"

"See, this is why I wasn't going to tell you . . . That and I hate you."

"How did you do?"

Seamus had almost forgotten he'd locked Blaise in.

Blaise was still on the divan, looking sullen.

"I did fine," Seamus answered. "I did the same as I always do. I did . . . I did fine." Placing his wig carefully on its mannequin head, he turned to Blaise and added, "I didn't see either one of them, if that's what you're trying to ask."

"Did you look?"

"I tried not to."

Blaise sighed. "I'm not drunk, you know."

Seamus chuckled. "I didn't say you were. Why is it that the only people who say that are the ones that are?"

"Oh, don't be stupid. I'm a Zabini. We don't get drunk. Besides, do you have any idea how many times I had to hex Ted Nott sober during the war? It's easy enough for me to do to myself."

"All right, you're not drunk. Is that better?"

Blaise leaned back against the wall. "One: You don't have a car."

"What?"

"These are the five things I know about you. Although, really, I have an advantage. While you were on stage, I took the liberty of going through your wallet. You use the Muggle bus system. So I assume you don't have a car."

"Ooh, this is very Sherlock Holmes. I love Sherlock Holmes!" Seamus sat down at vanity and clasped his hands over his knees in a pose of mock expectancy.

"Two: I can't pronounce your middle name, but you're Catholic."

"My middle name is Comhghall and what does that have to do with being Catholic? And what's your middle name?"

With a slightly smug smile, Blaise answered, "My full name is Blaise Alessandro Francois-Marie Caravaggio Jean-Henri Zabini."

Seamus raised his eyebrows. "Bet that was hell fitting on your birth certificate."

"It's what you get when you're French-Italian with about five million relatives who expect you to be named after them."

"You're wrong anyway; I'm not a practising Catholic."

"Well, neither am I. Who could bother anymore? Three: You wear contacts and you're an organ donor. Your emergency accident card whatever says so."

There was a knock at the door, and they both spun around.

Mycroft stepped in. "The, er, gentleman at the table nearest the bar asked me to give this to you," he announced, holding up a folded note.

Blaise sat up and caught his breath. "Did he?"

Mycroft ignored him and handed the note to Seamus.

Seamus stared at Blaise. "There's got to be--I mean, he hasn't even seen you. He doesn't know you're here, so . . ."

"Oh, stop feeling sorry for me and read it."

Seamus unfolded it:

Saw you onstage tonight. I'm at the table nearest the bar. Meet me as soon as you can. ~TB

Tearing a sheet of stationary from his vanity, Seamus scribbled a reply:

Hoped you hadn't. You know you have the same initials as tuberculosis? ~SF

"What does he want?" Blaise asked.

"To see me. The bastard." Seamus handed his reply to Mycroft. "Can you give this to him and tell him that I never associate with the guests in the club?"

Blaise tried not to smile.

Mycroft nodded. "A red-haired man asked me about you as well. Actually, all he did was ask me your real name. I told him that I didn't know. I said that all I knew about you was that you were a Squib from the south of Ireland."

"Mycroft, you're a Squib from the south of Ireland. And I sound far too Northern to make your lie even credible." Seamus forced a laugh. "Anyway, will you give that to the gentleman by the bar?"

As soon as Mycroft left, Blaise burst out with: "What doe he want to see you for? You're a--a relic from the war--a part of his past . . . He hasn't tried to see me. You'd think I'd have at least gotten an owl or something, you know."

"Relax, kid. It's not like he's gone out of his way to see me. He just happened to come here, right? And, please, don't call me a relic. Makes me sound so old." Seamus eased off his stockings and pulled on a pair of frayed blue jeans. "I'm not going to see him, anyway. What am I going to say to him if I do? 'Hi, so I hear you basically killed Draco Malfoy?' Come on. We never had anything to do with each other, anyway. At least you and he have some common ground."

"Common ground," Blaise sniffed. "Sure. The Slytherin dormitory. The Astronomy Tower. The broom shed. His room in Knockturn Alley." He paused, biting his left thumbnail and studying
Seamus. "You want to see him? I mean, secretly, you would, wouldn't you? If you weren't being so damn decent and thinking about me and how I feel. What right have you to be thinking about me, anyway? You always do that."

"Do what?" Seamus unzipped the dress, pulled it off, unclasped the heavy rhinestone necklace.

Seamus was, as he had always been, a complete mystery to Blaise. He'd been forced to believe that Seamus's absolute innocence and absolute decency were genuine, even though they ought to, by Blaise's reasoning, hide some sort of ulterior motives. And how could he keep that sort of decency intact, that desperate need to keep from ever hurting anyone, when he was no longer just a smiling Gryffindor schoolboy? When he was standing there, in a pair of jeans, a dozen costume bracelets, and heavy makeup, and somehow still managing to look concerned and wholesome?

"You know perfectly well what," Blaise snapped. "You always put everyone else first. That's Thing Number Four. I think . . ." Blaise shrugged. "I think, quite honestly, that might be why you're such a . . . Well, such a whore."

Seamus passed a hand over his eyes and began removing his bracelets and rings. "I don't think I see the connection."

"Because you don't want to bother anyone. You don't want to get in the way. You don't want to be a part of their life if you don't think they want you. So, logically speaking, you shouldn't be doing anything with anyone at all, right? That's where Number Five comes in: You, Seamus Whatever Finnigan, are a hopeless romantic."

Seamus pulled on an old tee-shirt with the Rolling Stones lips blazoned across the front. "Interesting."

"You desperately want to find love, so you'll go with anyone who looks like they might give it to you. Unfortunately, those people usually aren't out for lifelong romances, are they? They're always people like Jinjahhh Fay-ulps, aren't they? And they never want to stick around more than a night or two."

Wiping his makeup off with cold cream, Seamus said, "It sounds like you've been watching me a hell of a lot closer than someone who only 'should be friends' with me. You know, you are too."

"Are what?"

"A hopeless romantic. You're just saving yourself for some imaginary knight in shining armour, aren't you? Maybe you made the mistake once of thinking that Terry Boot was that knight, but you've gotten smarter now, haven't you? You're never going to take that chance again. With anyone. Not when you might get hurt. You might be a hopeless cynic as well, Blaise Five-Hundred-Middle-Names Zabini, but you're a romantic, too."

"He says," Mycroft announced from the doorway, "that if you don't like coming out into the club, he'll wait for you in the café at the end of the street."

"Tell him he'll be waiting a long time, then," Seamus said.

"He already left."

Staring at his hands folded in his lap, Blaise asked very softly, "Is he alone?"

Mycroft, with a sidelong glance at Seamus, shook his head. "No. He had a boy with him . . . Just a boy."

"What kind of boy?" Blaise pressed.

"The kind that you shouldn't get involved with," Mycroft answered. "And let that be a warning to you, young man."

"How's that a warning?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I just think I ought to be more paternal to you two. Dove thinks you lack guidance."

"Is he lurking around backstage again?"

Mycroft shook his head. "He's at home. Where I really ought to be. Instead, I'm delivering messages for you." He tousled Seamus's hair.

Seamus laughed. "Mycroft, I hope that when I get old, I'm a cool old gay man like you."

"Thanks a million," Mycroft replied, a bit sarcastically. "I'm not old, you know."

Seamus looked at Blaise. "I guess I'd better be going, then. Want to come?"

"You're going to go see him?" Blaise tried to make the question sound indifferent and nonchalant and failed on both counts.

"I think so."

"Well, I'm not going with you."

"Well, I wasn't going to force you."

"Good."

"All right." Seamus turned to go.

"Wait!" Blaise held out a hand to stop him.

Seamus smiled. "Yes, Blaise?"

"If he mentions me--I mean, if you think he wants to see me, I'm not completely adverse to the idea. And you will tell me everything he says?" Blaise looked away. "Not that I care. I mean . . . He's still a traitor, you know. Nothing will change that. But you'll still . . . ?"

With a warm look, Seamus said, "Of course I will, Blaise."

The café was called Tyndolini's and catered to students and tourists during the day and the denizens of the wizarding nightclub scene by night. Seamus glanced at his reflection in the window glass as he went in.

He wished he looked just a little more, well, cool. He ought to, by his reasoning, with his earrings and his sandy hair tipped fire-red. But somehow, he was still just blokey Seamus.

"Milo?" he asked the waiter. "Has anyone come in to wait for me?"

Milo shrugged. "Nobody's said so."

"Is there anyone here who looks--?" Seamus broke off. It had been so long since he's seen Terry; he had no idea what he looked like anymore. "His name is Terry Boot. Mycroft said he was with a boy."

"You're describing half the people here, man," Milo sighed. "Now, look, I have to bring the people over there cappuccinos before they kill me."

Seamus thanked him and looked around the crowded café. The cigarette smoke was so thick that he couldn't make out much of the people farthest away from him. Well, Terry, you can't say I didn't come. But this is stupid. I might as well go back and tell Blaise that you weren't here.

"Seamus Finnigan?"

Seamus spun around to find himself face to face with a boy maybe eighteen years old. He was slight and pale, with eyes ringed in navy blue liner and rings on every finger.

"What do you want, kid?"

"Come with me. He's been waiting."

"So Terry's trying to screw a younger version of himself," Seamus muttered. "Lovely. And so like him."

The boy led Seamus to a table in the back corner of the café and sat down, automatically entwining his arm with that of the table's only other occupant.

"Hello, Terry."

"Hello, Seamus." Terry arched one elegant eyebrow and took a drag on a black-and-gold cigarettes.

He hadn't changed. Of course, Seamus amended. He looks a bit different: His hair isn't electric blue and past his shoulders anymore. Now it was a deep scarlet like blood and cut so that it fell across his eyes with an effortless grace that Seamus was sure he could never manage. He'd subdued the heavy makeup he used to wear, too. Or perhaps he had just gotten better at putting it on.

"Won't you sit down?" Terry gestured at the third chair, and Seamus felt himself get unreasonably angry at the fact that Terry no longer had that chipped blue nail polish.

Easing himself into the chair, Seamus nodded at the boy attached to Terry's arm. "Who's he?"

Terry stroked the boy's head almost subconsciously and said, "This is Asphodel."

"Oh." He tried not to look at either of them. Thank God Blaise didn't want to come along. "What do you want to see me for?"

"No real reason. I saw you. So I thought I might as well ask to see you." When Seamus didn't answer, he continued, "I was thinking of writing an article about The Seventh Sinner. Actually, I just thought of that a few minutes ago, but I might do it. I wrote one when it first opened. Do you remember? No? Well, I didn't expect you would. I didn't actually go. It was just about how it was the first drag club in this part of the city and how none of the acts had ever been heard of before, so it was either destined to be an utter disaster, or . . ." He smiled. It was almost reptilian, Seamus thought, in its cold slyness. "Well, I was wrong, wasn't I?"

"I suppose you were."

"I would have to have been. I didn't know you were the feature when I wrote that."

"Thank you."

"Anytime." He paused, studying his cigarette. "You still keep in touch with anyone? Like the Creevey brother, whichever it was that survived? Or any of the remaining Weasleys? Or--?"

"If you're working around to asking about who I think you want to ask about, you might as well save your breath." Seamus forced a smile to take away some of the acid in his voice.

"I was just making conversation." Terry returned the smile. His was just as false.

"Oh, come on, Boot. I used to know you better than that."

"You used to?"

Seamus shrugged uncomfortably. "I thought I did. But I might have been kidding myself then, too."

Terry turned to Asphodel. "You might as well go on home, now. I'll call you tomorrow."

Seamus looked mildly surprised. "You have a telephone?"

"I have a flat in a Muggle building." He eased himself out of Asphodel's grasp.

"You don't know my number," Asphodel said in a weary way, as if he really didn't expect that Terry would ask for it anyway.

Terry kissed him briefly. "Don't worry about it."

When Asphodel was gone, Terry turned back to Seamus, fixing him with a stare that seemed designed solely to make Seamus uncomfortable.

It worked.

"What do you want, Boot?"

"Do you want to go somewhere else to talk? It's too crowded in here. There are too many people talking."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Somewhere quiet." Terry stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up. "Come with me."

The door swung open. "Blaise? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, God, Dove, I feel so stupid . . ."

Mycroft appeared in the doorway behind Dove. "Blaise, did I, er, ever tell you where I live?"

He shook his head. "It's in the files at the club. I looked it up. Am I interrupting something?"

With a roll of his eyes, Mycroft answered, "No, no, what you possibly be interrupting at eleven at night in the home of a married couple?"

Shooting Mycroft a Look, Dove said, "We're not married, you idiot." To Blaise, he said, "Come on in."

Dove led Blaise to the couch and Mycroft brought him a mug of hot cocoa.

"Okay," Mycroft said to Blaise. "Begin at the beginning: What's his name?"

"Terry?"

"Yes, Blaise?"

"Do you think we're as dysfunctional as all that?"

". . . Yes."

"Pity."

"I suppose. I've got to go; I'll be late for Charms again."

"It doesn't start for twenty minutes."

"Oh. Well. Where's my shirt?"

"Over there, by my trunk. We shouldn't do this anymore."

"If we didn't, we'd have nothing at all."

"I know. That's the problem."

Terry's flat was in a Muggle building that had been dubbed "fashionable" by some unknown but incredibly influential being.

And the flat itself was "fashionable"--with sleek new furniture and art prints on the walls.

Seamus hated it. "So this is where you live."

"Yes. Do you like it?"

"No."

"I didn't expect you would." Terry crossed over to the bar by his fireplace. "Want anything to drink?"

"No."

Arching an eyebrow in mild surprise, Terry poured himself a tall glass of something luminous and bubbly. "Have a seat."

"This doesn't look like a room you'd sit down in. You either admire it briefly while passing through or stand about awkwardly until you leave."

"That was the general idea." Terry sighed and sat on one of the bar stools. "We could move to the bedroom, if you want. It's much more comfortable."

"It's also the bedroom."

Terry sipped his drink. "See? I knew you were smart. I knew you had to have brains to be a--"

"A what?" Seamus cut in.

"A . . . A drag queen," Terry finished lamely. "What did you think I was going to say?"

"I don't know."

"Well, Seamus, in all honesty, you have developed something of a reputation."

"Have I? I can only assume that you're referring to the same reputation you've maintained ever since our days at Hogwarts."

Terry bit his lower lip and closed his eyes briefly before smiling and saying, "I suppose, but I'd have to say that yours might actually be better earned."

"What, you don't sleep around?" When Terry didn't answer, Seamus continued, "And to know any sort of reputation of mine also means that you would know that I worked at The Seventh Sinner."

Terry sighed. "You got me there. You'd think I'd be better at keeping my mouth shut."

"I'd thought you would be, too . . . Blaise, however, claims otherwise."

Terry went dangerously quiet for a moment, before assuming a very false smirk and a flippant, "Well, he would, wouldn't he? He tends to say things, you know."

"He never struck me as the type to say things that weren't true, though . . ."

"He was a Slytherin. They'll say anything."

"So will Ravenclaws, sometimes."

"How do you know what Blaise claims anyway?" Terry watched Seamus carefully from his perch on the barstool.

"See, this is what I've been trying to get to. Or, rather, that's what you were trying to get to."

"I wasn't trying to get to anything!"

Seamus smiled. "Don't play dumb with me, Boot. I might be just a lowly Gryffindor, but I have my Ravenclaw moments."

"Gleaned from years of Sherlock Holmes, no doubt?"

"Don't change the subject. Now, you obviously knew I worked at The Seventh Sinner, and you've admitted that much. And how would you know that? You would have had to have one of your little magazine lackeys look it up. And, really, I don't think I was the one you were looking for."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I'm not the sort of person one goes out of their way to look up." Seamus shrugged one shoulder. "Simple."

Terry drained his drink in a single gulp and set the glass on the bar. "Don't sell yourself short, Finnigan." He stood and crossed over to Seamus. "You still look uncomfortable standing there, you know." He rested a hand lightly on Seamus's shoulder and his fingers were cool through Seamus's tee-shirt.

Seamus tried not to draw away. "What are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing at anything, Seamus. I'm dead serious."

Seamus wished he would smile; somehow, that would make it okay. "What do you mean?"

"You look like you think I'm going to bite your head off! I was just thinking about that horrible party we went to in sixth year, and then I thought, 'Wouldn't it have been nice if Blaise had had the courtesy to refrain from interrupting us?' So I was now thinking that perhaps we should continue where we left off."

"I think that perhaps we shouldn't," Seamus countered, stepping away from Terry.

"You're still the same." Terry sighed and pulled away, crossed the room and poured himself another drink. "You're still willing to put everyone else first, aren't you?"

"Well, not everyone . . ." Seamus shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily. "I mean, I'd just feel a bit guilty . . . You know?"

"Yes. Guilty. I've heard of that one."

"Oh, come on, you've never felt guilty?" Seamus gave him his best sceptical stare.

"Look, the schoolboy sweetheart of a co-worker is hardly something I'd bother feeling guilty about. Because firstly, you're not really friends with Blaise, are you? You never spoke to him in school. You don't even have anything in common. And secondly, we were over each other years ago."

You might have been, Seamus wanted to tell Terry, but Blaise isn't. But maybe that was just what Terry wanted to hear. "Were you? When did that happen?"

"What? You thought we were still together?" Terry's voice was sharp and sarcastic. "God, Seamus!"

"Don't get like that. I just never knew exactly when it happened. Not that it's any of my business, necessarily. But . . ."

"You're right. It isn't." Terry held his head at an angle, as if challenging Seamus to press him further.

Seamus obliged. "It was after the war began, wasn't it? No, it wasn't. It had started before that, hadn't it?"

"We knew from the start of seventh year that we were going nowhere fast," Terry replied with a toss of his head, shaking his hair out his eyes. "Or I did, anyway. Blaise was always a hopeless romantic. Still is, I'll bet."

Seamus nodded. "But he's not stupid, you know."

"'Course not. He never was. Then again, neither was I." He walked back over to Seamus. "Shame."

"What's a shame?"

"You. Seamus."

"Oh. What?"

"You aren't going to sleep with me tonight, are you?"

"I don't think so. Nor tomorrow night. Or the night after that. Or . . . Why are you doing this, Terry?"

"Why am I doing what?" Terry asked testily.

"Having me over like this. You didn't really want to sit in a café and talk. You didn't really want to drink coffee and smoke and have that little boy cling to your arm."

"Didn't I? How would you know?"

"This was all an elaborate, planned-out ruse to get me here so you could seduce me!"

"You're contradicting yourself, Finnigan!" Terry tried to smile triumphantly. "I thought you'd said I had you over to find out about Blaise."

"Well, you didn't have to bring me here to do that." Seamus fought back the part of him that wanted to--That part of him that was tempted by the slender figure standing less than an arm's length away. Tempted to smear that carefully applied lip gloss, tangle that smooth, gleaming hair, tear a perfect, untouchable statue from his marble pedestal . . .

"Maybe I just missed you." Terry shrugged. "I've got a couple Bowie records in the bedroom. I found them in a pawn shop a couple weeks back and thought of you."

"Terry. You're pleading now, you know that?" He paused. "And, you know, Blaise doesn't smile anymore."

"Doesn't--Doesn't he?" Seamus saw Terry hesitate before pressing, "Let's just talk, then. Nothing else."

With a gentle smile, Seamus said, "Terry, are you really that lonely?"

He didn't answer.