The Seventh Sinner

Part IV: Must be Something Terribly Wrong with Me

When Terry got to his desk at the magazine offices late that afternoon, there was a Howler waiting for him. "Jesus, not again," he muttered, ripping it open.

"BOOT! WHERE'S YOUR COLUMN FOR THIS MONTH'S ISSUE? NEVER MIND THE COLUMN--WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I WANT TO SEE YOU IN MY OFFICE THE INSTANT YOU GET THIS! IF YOU KEEP THIS BEHAVIOR UP, YOU'LL BE OUT OF HERE BEFORE YOU CAN SAY, 'WINGRADIUM LEVIOSA!'"

As he watched the ashes smolder on top of his stack of unfinished work, he said to himself, "Well, the old boy's nothing if not predictable."

"Terry? Get another Howler from McGann?" Ira Cohen smirked from his desk. "You're going to give him a total nervous breakdown one of these days, I swear."

"You should start a pool to see how many days it takes me." Terry grinned and brushed the remains of the Howler to the carpet.

"He'll fire you. You'll get fired by a man who says 'Wingradium.' And that's kind of pathetic, buddy."

"Shut up and get back to your Quidditch writing."

Ira chuckled. "I'm done for the day. It's quitting time, Terry."

Terry knew he shouldn't hate Ira. He was a bit too smug, maybe, and a bit too friendly, but he was one of the only guys on the staff who didn't dislike Terry.

And Terry hated him. He hated him for having a smart, patient girlfriend, for having a group of loyal friends with loud voices and loud laughs and a bottomless supply of dirty jokes, and for never having to wonder whether or not there was anywhere out there to whom he mattered. It was this sort of easy, worry-free existence that Terry envied and despised. Why didn't these people ever seem to realize how perfect they had it?

"Professor Snape?"

"Don't call me 'Professor.' I'm not a teacher anymore, am I? And you're not a student."

"Yes. Mister Snape? Lord and Master?"

"Shut up, Boot."

"Yes, sir. What do you want from me?"

"What has anyone ever wanted from you, Boot?"

"Sex."

"I'm not surprised, Boot. You'll never be good for anything else, will you? You're a brilliant boy; I'll admit that. But that doesn't do you a bit of good. No matter how clever you are, you'll always just be--"

"A whore. Just a Knockturn Alley slut with nothing else going for him. But what if I didn't have to be? What if I told you what I knew?"

"You? What would you know?"

"Why would I tell you, anyway? I don't need to win you over."

"You need to win someone over sometime. They're all against you, aren't they? Where are your friends? Where are the people who were supposed to save you from yourself before it was too late? It's too late now, Boot."

It had been a long, lazy, aimless afternoon. Seamus had been spending it hanging around in The Seventh Sinner alone, grateful for the time to think.

Or to try not to. To try not to think about certain people with blood-red hair that fell gracefully over their eyes, with glossy pink lips that curved into a mocking smile far too easily, with eyes that never looked entirely honest or entirely happy.

To try not to think about certain people who were coming back to club tonight. In less than an hour. I hope it's for Blaise. Dear God, I hope it isn't for me. I don't know what I'd say to him. I always did become a useless idiot when it came to Terry Boot . . .

But then again, maybe I really am just a useless idiot and he just reminds me of that fact. Constantly. And enjoys doing it.

Then again, so does Blaise . . . Or does he? He was a Slytherin, wasn't he? You'd expect him to be, wouldn't you? But he isn't. Not any more than he should be. Because--I'll admit it--sometimes I deserve those looks of near pity and those weary, withering stares . . .

Or do I?

Seamus sighed and stretched out on the divan in his dressing room. "Terry was right," he murmured. "I am as confusing as hell. But maybe it's only because I'm as confused as hell . . ."

"Seamus? Phone call." One of the little club lackeys stood in the doorway, looking a bit nervous. Seamus recognized him vaguely as the one who stocked the bar and kept everything looking clean and new.

"Who is it?"

"Someone named Clarence. He says it's important."

"Clarence?" Clarence who? Oh, the grocery kid. "Did he say why?"

"Um, not really . . . He said, 'Oh, God, he's going to die. Tell Seamus it's really important.'" He paused. "He sounded pretty upset."

"I'll be right there."

"Ginger, what was it? What was it?" Clarence seized him by the front of his shirt and shook him hard, before letting him go.

Ginger fell back onto the couch in Clarence's flat, cheeks flushed. "I could tell you. It wouldn't matter. You wouldn't be able to stop it. You and your Muggle doctors."

"My what? Ginger, tell me what that stuff was, or I'll bloody well kill you!"

"It was poison."

"I know that, bastard." Clarence swallowed hard. "I'm going to call the hospital."

"You do that. Have fun. Fat lot of good it'll do you, though."

"Why's that?"

He was sweating now. It was running down his forehead, down his cheeks, blurring his eyeliner, making him appear hollow-eyed, as if he were dead already. "Muggle medicine is useless against this shit." He curled up among the cushions and looked up at Clarence. "Cold in here, isn't it?"

"What the fuck's a Muggle?"

"What's it matter to you? You are one. So you won't have heard the word before. If you don't know, you are one . . ."

Clarence paused, remembering his conversation with Seamus. "But if you do know what a Muggle is?"

"Forget it, sweetheart. Where's a little Muggle like you going to find another wizard this quickly?"

"At The Seventh Sinner. I think. Oh, Christ, I hope I kept the number . . ."

"They'll kill you if they know you're Apparating without a license, Shame."

"Dean, don't you think they've got more important things on their minds?"

"Well . . ."

"I mean, it is the end of the world as we know it. Do you really think they'll care about the borderline-delinquent comings and goings of an Irish kid who has nothing to do with You-Know-Who and nothing to do with 'The Cause,' whatever that means?"

"It doesn't mean much. Not to the rest of us."

"Don't stand so close to me."

"I'm not!"

"You are. And I'm not interested."

"I wasn't propositioning you, you idiot! I'm your best friend!"

"Yeah. So? I'm your best friend too."

"Come off it, Shame, you only hit on me when you're drunk."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I wish I were more useful. I like the idea of fighting for the greater good, you know. I just don't know if I can help. It's not a soldier's war, though. It's a spy's, isn't it?"

"It is right now, but I get the feeling that it'll follow the old saying . . ."

"Which one?"

"You ain't seen nothing yet."

"Clarence? . . . Slow down, I don't know what you're saying . . . Who? Ginger Phelps? . . . Did what? . . . When? . . . Why? . . . You don't know why? Well, don't ask. I'll try to get you help . . . I . . . Where are you? Your address. . . . Okay. I'll, uh, I'll . . . Do something. . . . Hang on. Stay with him. I don't know what to tell you to do . . . Just hang on, all right?" Seamus hung up the phone, his hear pounding. God damn, how could I help? I'm no Healer. I know nothing about poisons . . . "Blaise! Blaise!"

Mycroft appeared in the doorway. "He hasn't come in yet. What do you want him for?"

"A wizard just tried to poison himself . . . God damn it, Mycroft, I said I'd try to help. What the hell can I do? I don't know how to treat poisons! I don't know the first thing about it."

"Is he going to die?"

"That's his goal."

"And he called to tell you?"

Seamus threw him a dark look. "Shut up. I don't have time for this!" He closed his eyes, trying to drudge up something useful from all those Potions classes all those years ago. Something about antidotes to poisons . . . Anything . . . He remembered, suddenly, the day they'd learned that in their sixth year. He'd slipped out to Hogmeade the night before to meet Fred Weasley over The Three Broomsticks, and he hadn't told Dean and wasn't going to and felt so guilty all day over it and . . . And then after class, Dean had asked him what was making him look so uncomfortable and Seamus said . . .

That was it! Potter. He'd said something about how he wished he'd known he could just give Slughorn that . . . that . . . thingy.

Just hope to God they know what I'm talking about when I ask for it, he thought and Disapparated.