Sinner

Sinner - Prologue

Good boys never win

They all fall away

And you remain

~ Blondie, 'Good Boys'

I made a list of my virtues, once upon a time. I made a list of his virtues and my sins and I burned it all away, because no one would really care, in the end.

It was seven deadly sins that brought us down the road to today; all sins of mine, and none of his, which isn't actually all that surprising.

The first was avarice, love for money and material possessions: a definition of my life as it was meant to be.

(So much for my estate, his riches; what can we do when all we're left is a wasteland and two empty promise rings?)

Envy seems to be the cause of so many things, and this is no exception.

(Mine, mine, MINE, dammit! Does he not understand that he burns for me alone?)

Lust is the sweetest of the seven, and certainly the most deadly.

(He was always the sweetest temptation, the diamond buried in a pile of rubble, but how can I break this spell I don't understand?)

Sloth, the plea for just five more minutes, the certainty that your body wants no more than just to lie in peace forever.

(He never understood the pure bliss of just lying there watching the light play over the silken sheets, and it doesn't matter that Potions is my favourite lesson, because some things are much more important...)

Gluttony is heading down to the kitchens every night for cream to slather across his skin, and licking a trail of strawberry juice down his chest.

(What does it matter whether the ice-cream's vanilla or toffee? We both know it's just a side-dish, anyway.)

Anger with him, with his friends, with the entire bloody world, a sin to tear the other six's fragile world asunder.

(I don't care anymore, do you understand me? I swear to Merlin I will just walk out of that door unless you shut up and listen!)

Pride: the pride of a Malfoy is his one true vice, and is probably the one I most regret.

(I won't go after him, I swear. Not until he comes begging me. It's all a matter of pride.)

And as for virtues, I have none. What else were you expecting to hear?

~~~

Sinner I - Avarice

avarice n eager desire for wealth; covetousness. [Fr, from L avaritia, from avarus greedy, from avere to pant after]

~

My favourite day of the year has to be my birthday, April 13^th. It's a lovely day because it's the one time each year I can finally show everyone just who I am.

Christmas is all very well, but there are never any Gryffindors lurking around the Manor on that cold morning as I unwrap gift after lavish gift, and few people outside my own house are impressed with - or, indeed, even notice - the expensive trinkets that I carry, because they all have their own families to discuss or presents to show.

On my birthday, though, it is just me, surrounded by a sea of owls delivering whatever my many relatives and admirers have decided to adorn me with that particular year, and it makes it very difficult not to notice me.

So I open each package and make a show of exclaiming loudly at each and every one, putting on however many new watches I have instantly and then complaining that the sheer weight of all the silver makes my arm ache.

There was one year, however, where all of this went wrong somehow.

I decided that I wanted to walk past the Gryffindor table that breakfast time and show the Weasel how much money I had. The Wonder Trio hadn't been as easy to trip up lately, and it was really beginning to grate on my nerves. I mean, what's the point in having more than someone else if you can't show it off, especially as Potter should have understood by then that he would have been much better off in all senses if he'd taken my hand that day, years ago.

Think of it, the great Boy Who Lived being seduced into the darkness, not knowing which other path to take. Think of the rewards I would have received for delivering him straight to the Dark Lord; the riches my father and my family would have gained, which I would have inherited in a short time.

At the age of eleven I had an amazing plan to capture the great Harry Potter and reap the rewards, somehow engineering my father's untimely demise along the way to gain the full benefits of my position as the only Malfoy heir.

Of course, in retrospect, that would really not have been practical: that boy always oozes self-sacrifice, and would probably not, even at that young age, have fallen for any such schemes: he would have been a Slytherin himself, obviously, and a predisposition for plotting and in turn sniffing out other plots is a house prerequisite.

Anyway, what matters is that he chose Weasley, and I hadn't forgiven that by my eighteenth birthday.

I walked towards the staff table - with a trail of my loyal friends and lackeys behind me, levitating my many piles of gifts - for a brief word with Professor Snape about an extension Potions assignment, and from there, the quickest route out of the Hall was past the Gryffindors.

I sauntered along the aisle between them and the Hufflepuffs, shooting glares at the younger years as I passed, until I reached the Sixth and Seventh Years at the end of the table.

The head of the Potter Fan Club, Ginger Weasel or whatever she's called, instantly put down her slice of toast and leaned over to get her brother's attention.

He, Potter and the Mudblood looked up at me, and, while the latter realised instantly what was going on, the other two seemed clueless.

'Malfoy,' began Weasel carefully, 'Where on Earth did you get that brooch?'

I looked down and fingered the brooch twinkling on the lapel of my robes. 'My Aunt Bella sent it,' I replied haughtily. 'Her consort charmed it himself, especially for me.' I ran my thumb across the silver dragon's ridged back, wincing as I cut myself on the razor-sharp tail.

Weasel didn't suppress his snicker, and neither did Potter, but Granger looked at me curiously. 'Aunt Bella as in Bellatrix Lestrange?'

I rolled my eyes. 'How many other Bellas do you know with access to this much money? And I thought you were meant to be bright,' I scoffed slightly, all the while curious as to exactly how much the Triumvirate knew about my family tree.

If anyone had heard about my great uncle Xavier, I would commit hara-kiri in a heartbeat.

'And by consort,' she continued, 'you mean...' A pause, in which Potter shot her a pointed look down the table. 'You mean Voldemort?'

My Slytherins and I flinched at the name and Potter shot us an incredulous look. Presumably he didn't expect that reaction from those who were chosen to follow the Dark Lord, even though he had witnessed the same response at the end of Fifth Year, when my father had been sent to prison because of the bloody Boy Who Would Not Die.

I was curious as to exactly what kind of a response he was expecting, though: we had all been raised cursing his name and fearing the Lord's. Fear and blind obedience; that was what was required of us, and the knowledge or and desire for that glittering reward at the end of it all was enough to keep my head down, at least for a while.

'I really don't think that's any of your business, Mudblood,' I replied coldly. 'I'll see you in Potions, Potter...And Weasley? I hope not to see you again for a good, long while.'

I beckoned my entourage to follow as I turned to sweep away, but Potter called after me, his first words to me that day. 'Oh, wait! Malfoy? Happy birthday.'

From somewhere inside his robes he extracted a parcel that couldn't have been much larger than a chocolate frog packet and tossed it over to me.

I caught it and shook it. 'What's this meant to be, Potter?'

He shrugged, reaching for the jug of pumpkin juice. 'A present.'

I frowned. 'A present? What is it, poisoned confectionary? A portkey that leads to the middle of the ocean?'

He smiled that annoying demi-smirk he always wears when he's thinking of a private joke. 'Just a present.'

I raised an eyebrow and turned back to the door, leading a pack of very confused Slytherins back to the common room to drop of all my new things.

~

I waltzed into Potions class ten minutes late, content in the knowledge that Snape wouldn't ever dock points from me, especially on such an important day. Sliding into my seat next to that idiot Longbottom - 'Maybe, if you're extremely lucky, some of Mister Malfoy's intelligence will rub off on you' - I began to empty my bag, methodically setting out my ink, quill, spare quill and parchment in the same way as I always do.

'Um...Malfoy?' asked Longbottom, cringing away as I turned to look at him.

'What?'

'Aren't you gonna set up your cauldron?'

I span all the way round to meet his gaze with the practically patented Malfoy glare. 'No, I'm not going to set up my cauldron.'

He seemed to be visibly moving away from me at that point. 'B-but if you don't, how're we meant to...'

'Listen, Longbottom, there is no way I am putting another of my top-grade cauldrons through the ordeal of holding one of your concoctions. I have already had to write home twice for new ones in the past month, and while I'm sure my mother will be glad to buy one for me, each purchase is a substantial bite out of my inheritance. I'm not entirely sure a person of your standard would understand that, but--'

'That is the most crap I've ever heard from anyone, Malfoy,' came Potter's voice conversationally from my other side, 'and I live with the most disgusting Muggles you could ever imagine.'

I wrinkled my nose and muttered a soft prayer for salvation. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of your delightful company?' I drawled, leaning one elbow against the desk.

He rolled his eyes and shrugged. 'I was just wondering if you'd opened my present, that's all.'

Longbottom piped up then. 'You got him a present?'

'It wasn't anything fancy. Just a small token of my appreciation.'

'Appreciation?' I raised a somewhat overworked eyebrow and he shrugged again. It's a habit of his, the shrugging, as if he never quite knows what to say.

'You'll see.'

So I took the bait. 'All right, Potter, I get the hint.' With an exaggerated sigh I reached into my pocket and pulled out the gift. It was clumsily covered in garish red paper held together by jagged strips of Spellotape and garnished with a silver ribbon that must have been charmed not to crumple.

I wasn't sure I'd ever seen anything worse wrapped, and my parents once gave me a large toy dragon that ripped holes in its paper and singed the bow. Then again, Potter probably didn't know that there were spells and House Elves for that kind of thing.

I slowly ran a beautifully manicured nail - thank you, Daphne Greengrass - over the tape securing the end, drawing out the moment more and more as the mixture of anticipation and annoyance on Potter's face grew stronger.

'Dammit, Malfoy, will you just open it? I don't want to leave Nott alone with my bag any longer than I have to.'

'And you really think that's an incentive for me to hurry up?'

'Well...Neville's started on your potion already!' I had to give Potter some credit for that one; he knew that I didn't want any more failing grades: Longbottom's incompetence was the reason I asked for the extension work in the first place, and it was seriously beginning to affect my sleeping patterns.

As much as I hated to do it, I ripped the paper and looked down at the present. At first I was slightly confused, then it turned to mild annoyance at Potter's silent laughter.

'The look on your face...' he managed to choke between giggles, and I glanced back down at the gift in my hand. It was a book, and the title read: The Little Book of Compliments: 101 Nice Things to Say. 'Well?' he asked a minute later, having finally recovered.

'It's perfect, Potter,' I drawled, flipping through it randomly. 'I mean, what person doesn't want to hear that they...' I scanned the page, '..."have a terrific outlook on life"?'

'Some of them are kinda...odd,' he confessed. 'But you have to admit that it's appropriate.'

'A waste of money is what it was,' I scoffed. 'I mean, come on: "You make hotdogs taste like a gourmet meal"? That's hardly what everyone dreams of hearing. Besides, I'm sure you get enough of this rubbish from your fanclub as it is. You don't need me to tell you that you "have a great reputation", do you?'

Potter shrugged again and I felt a sudden urge to hit him. 'Some people might. The book suggests giving five compliments a day.'

'Okay then, let's get this over with.' I skipped back through the book. 'Okay, then, Potter, you are..."unique",' I began with a smirk. 'You are "a picture of good health", even though you look like you have some kind of eating disorder.' I flipped through to the very end. 'Ah, these ones are better. You are "the light of my life",' I continued, my voice devoid of all true emotion but heavily laden with boredom.

Potter looked as though he couldn't decide whether to be angry or amused.

'You are "the wind beneath my wings",' I added. 'That's four, right?'

He nodded and I opened my mouth to deliver the final compliment that would hopefully ever cross my lips.

Before I could speak, however, I heard bubbling coming from behind me, and spun round to see that idiot Longbottom adding armadillo bile to still-burning ash bark. There wasn't enough time for me to duck behind Potter and use him as a shield, and my cry of 'Shit!' was lost in the explosion.

Wiping bile and a trickle of blood from my forehead a minute later, I picked up the book - which was still miraculously intact - and turned to the third page. 'Longbottom? "You make working on a project a joy".'

I picking up my bag from its sheltered spot under the table and stormed out of the room, spitting back a harsh, 'Thanks for the great gift, Potter,' as I opened the door.

Just. Bloody. Perfect.

~

The next class, unfortunately for me, was History of Magic, which was, for some reason no one has yet fathomed, compulsory even at NEWT level - at least, since last year, stupid laws of nature.

It is normally blamed on the fact that the wizard in charge of the very small education department of the Ministry of Magic is still seeking revenge for his being Sorted into Hufflepuff despite being the brightest member of his class at his School of Primary Wizardry. His first act was to abolish all British primary schools for being sources of false hope; and, as if to make up for that supposed kindness, he threw all sorts of awful subjects into the curriculum, like Divination and Muggle Studies.

Rumours that he is partial to Baruffio's Brain Elixer and a few illegal hallucinogenic potions remain unfounded to this day.

Of course, it was only to be expected that History would fall on my birthday, and not just because of the handy Montrose Magpies calendar that Blaise gave me for Christmas. It was only on my eighteenth birthday that I could possibly have all three lessons with at least one of the Gryffindors, but luckily I was free after lunch, before my Practical Astronomy lesson in the evening.

Only my birthday would fall on Friday the thirteenth.

I hadn't actually noticed that fact until I arrived at the History room: we only have one lesson a week, thank Merlin, and for me it signifies the blessed promise of the weekend.

I dawdled my way up to the classroom and loitered outside, absently kicking the wall beside me as I tried to remember some of the basic healing charms we'd been taught a few weeks before. Of course, I hadn't really been paying much attention: Charms is the only subject other than History that I have with the entire Gryffindor Trio, and that particular lesson had been spent trying to adapt a communication spell to follow Potter round, screaming obscenities. It had ended up whispering them to him, and his friends thought he was going mad as he pressed his ear against the wall and tried to hear the voice.

I ruined the entire plan with a sneer of, 'What's wrong, is there another snake in the pipes, Potter?'

Overall, it was a lesson well spent, but not exactly useful to my situation.

'Asuago,' I muttered, pointing my wand at the cut on my forehead. It was still dripping small amounts of blood down past my eye, but the pain had dissipated slightly. Feeling more confident, I tried a cleaning spell, but it gave me the unpleasant sensation of having poured an entire bottle of shampoo into my eye. I charmed a quick jet of water at it and wiped the mess away with a silk handkerchief with the Malfoy crest embroidered in the corners, but it was still raw and leaking the occasional tear when the Gryffindors materialised beside me, as if from nowhere. I hadn't heard the bell go, but there were other people rushing round everywhere, including the Third Years escaping from Binns's class.

'Merlin, Malfoy, you look like you've been crying your eyes out!' came the obnoxious tones of the Weasel.

'Oh, Weasel,' I said in as sugary a tone as I could manage, 'You are "very alert".' I was proud of having remembered another inane compliment, and smirked at Potter. 'I want to take back what I said about your gift, Potter.'

He took a step backwards in surprise, narrowly missing stepping on Pansy's toe.

'Some of those compliments make perfect insults,' I finished somewhat contentedly.

'What the hell do you mean, Malfoy?' he asked, and I noticed more than ever that his obnoxiousness seemed to increase in the Weasel's presence.

'My, Potter, you "have a great way with words",' I recited.

'Malfoy, are you feeling okay? You seem much...stranger than usual.' The Mudblood frowned at me, hands on hips.

'I'm fine, thank you, Granger. Just looking at your face "makes me glad to be me".'

She blinked twice in confusion before turning and rushing into the classroom, which gave me the distinct impression that she had absolutely no idea what I meant by that.

Despite the tears and streaks of blood trickling down my cheek, I suddenly felt much better.

Professor Binns was, as ever, oblivious to the wound scarring my as yet unmarked skin, and probably very unwilling for me to go to the Infirmary, so I had to be content with Daphne's medical prowess, which mostly consisted of her trying to poke me in the eye with her wand and make it look like an accident.

Most of the rest of the time was spent playing Forfeit Poker with my new set of "Heroes of Quidditch" playing cards, which resulted in, among other things, all of our homework parchments going up in flames.

Granger was outraged at this and ran to the front of the class. 'Professor...Professor, our papers...they're on fire!'

'Yes, yes, wait until I've finished this section.'

'But Professor, they're burning! All our work!'

'That's nice, Miss Grimshaw, but I'm sure it can wait.'

'But...'

Then he noticed, and with the most emotion in his voice any of us had ever heard him use, cried, 'Now students, don't panic, but your homework is on fire!'

We had, of course, all conveniently forgotten the charm to put out the blaze, and even Wonder Boy seemed somewhat amused as the ghost tried to spell it, to no avail.

'Quick, students, extinguo, extinguo!' he shouted, floating back and forth like Peeves when he saw new students for the first time.

Eventually Brown did it because the fire was spreading towards her desk, but a good twenty minutes was consumed by the fiasco, after which Binns instantly picked up from the middle of the sentence he'd had to cut off.

The Gryffindors seemed mildly entertained by our game after that, and Finnigan even insisted on joining in when Blaise upped the stakes to stripping. He tried to make Thomas join in, too, and I'm sure I wasn't the only Slytherin who wondered whether there was something going on between them.

The most interesting part of the lesson by far, though, was when the first male player was forced to remove his shirt; and I noticed that Potter, who hadn't seemed to mind looking at any of the girls, blushed and began to take an unhealthy interest in his pot of ink.

I thought about how I could use that against him, and for a moment contemplated seducing him and then delivering him to the Dark Lord. Then I realised that such a plan would never work and would probably end up with the development of unwanted and unhealthy emotional ties, which could get extremely messy for everyone involved. Instead, I thought I'd just mess with his mind a bit. After all, it was my birthday.

~

Charms passed with everyone from Slytherin and Gryffindor - except Granger and Potter, who looked on with disdain and amusement respectively - practising their incendio's on anything they could see, and Flitwick decided to give up trying to teach us the theory behind that and other elemental spells when the fifth fire shot up from the back of the room. Instead, he gave us all a lecture regarding the safe use of such spells and the correct spiral wand movement required to cast a good extinguo.

This, of course, inspired us to practice, and to our delight we discovered that the application of the wrong wrist movement can cause large amounts of water to shoot out at the target fire, rather than it being put out dry.

The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs sitting at the front seemed mystified by the whole thing, and many of them looked extremely scared when the Weasel stood up and acted out the fire scene, especially when he started using a high-pitched squawk for Granger's part.

Unfortunately, Flitwick set us a four-foot essay on the purpose of motion when casting elemental charms, asking for it in first thing on Sunday morning, despite our complaints.

As Daphne and I picked up our bags and hurried down to lunch, my head ached and I felt slightly sick, but I still thought the day was finally beginning to look up.

This continued with assorted Slytherin games during my free session and the afternoon 'study time', including the (far superior) magical version of the Muggle game 'Twister', in which the unoccupied spots change colour after each turn.

However, I had a practical Astronomy lesson at nine, after dinner, in which Professor Sinistra leaves us unsupervised to work on our NEWT projects - 'that's a third of your overall grade, so I expect it to be good, understood?' - which is basically kneeling in front of a telescope for an hour pretending to know what you're looking at...at least, it is in the Weasel's case. Some of us can actually do Astronomy.

At nine on the dot I climbed gracefully up into the top observatory section of the Tower, idly wondering whether Sinistra held her practicals on Friday and Saturday nights because we didn't have to get up early the next morning or just to discourage couples from holding their assignations up here. I suspect it may be the latter, although judging by the head count, its effect as a deterrent is wearing off after so many years.

I was just setting my telescope to face the constellation Draco when I heard voices from below: Potter and the Weasel. It wasn't surprising that Potter was there; he and the Mudblood tend to accompany their little friend to stop him going mad and throwing himself off the top of the Tower. It wouldn't be a tremendous loss, but with Potter's guilt-complex I suppose they have to at least make an effort.

'Ron, why on Earth did you take Astronomy, anyway? I wouldn't voluntarily climb these stairs three times a week.'

'You know that I didn't have a choice, mate. This and Divination were the only other subjects I did well enough in to continue, and I wouldn't want to risk another two years with Trelawney. I mean, what was I meant to take, Muggle Studies?'

Potter laughed, and I could practically hear his expression: it was the 'fondness and tolerance for the Weasel' look, the one he got when he knew Weasley was being stupid but didn't want to hurt his feelings. He should have been a Hufflepuff, although his picking that imbecile over me in the first place proved to have been a very brave choice, in the long run.

'I know, I know, aren't I entitled to complain once in a while?'

They were getting louder now, and the other people around the room were rolling their eyes at this weekly event...or rather, nightmare.

'And why couldn't 'Mione come tonight, anyway?'

'She's in the library. Said she wanted to get well ahead on her Charms essay before we go to Hogsmeade tomorrow.'

They came through the trapdoor at that moment and dusted themselves off with the same casualness we all showed. They'd done this a million times before, even Potter.

'So, do you and Weasley come here often, Potter?' I asked when he caught my eye, and he flushed before spitting out a 'Good evening to you too, Malfoy.'

I realised that maybe baiting Potter would be easier than it had first seemed. But before all of that, I had to finish tonight's work. Taking out a quill and some parchment, I began to sketch a rough sky map, when raucous laughter cut across my concentration.

For a moment, I actually wished that Granger were there, because she tended to keep those two quiet when they were interrupting others' work. How was I meant to concentrate with their constant yelling about nothing? For Merlin's sake, no one cares about the Chudley Cannons; their team motto says it all loud and clear.

I stewed for a long time, torn between getting my work done and going over and spelling both their mouths shut, but when I eventually made up my mind to just punch them, I noticed that I'd been absently doodling all over my star chart and that the sky had been covered with a thick layer of cloud, making it impossible to see any of the constellations. Bloody Potter.

I gave in and packed my stuff away, but stopped before I reached the trapdoor and carried on across to where Potter was showing Weasley how to position the telescope and charm it to track a specific satellite, as useless as the lesson was in that weather. It made me wonder exactly how discriminating Sinistra was in selecting her NEWT classes: he certainly wasn't up to even OWL standard if he didn't know something as simple as how to use a telescope.

By that time, everyone else had already gone, and I was left standing there with Potter and Weasley glaring up at me.

'What is it now, Ferret?' the Weasel hissed: that name was always a particular favourite of his.

I imitated Potter's nonchalant shrug. 'I just wanted to give you something. A share of my good fortune, as it were.'

Potter stood up and drew his wand. 'What are you playing at now, Malfoy?'

'Exactly what I said, Potter.' I reached into my pocket and picked out a handful of change. Among it was one of the newly introduced five Galleon notes, which my grandmother had sent me along with another fifty Galleons and a year's supply of Bertie Bott's Beans - 'every time you eat one, a new one appears in its place!' the ad insists. 'You'll never go hungry again!' - 'Weasley, take this and tell your mother she can give the family a decent meal for once.'

He stared at the money as if it was about to spring up and bite him, but eventually he took it and held it up to the light. 'Bloody hell, Harry, it's real! I didn't think you could get these yet!'

'Please, I'm a Malfoy,' I drawled by way of response, turning and leaving before I had to watch the Weasel defiling my precious money.

The trapdoor snapped shut behind me, but I could still hear their supposedly hushed voices from upstairs.

'Ron...did Malfoy just...give you money?'

'...I think so.'

'So...was he just...nice to you?'

'I really don't know, mate. But I do know that that git wouldn't do anything to his own money; he loves it too much.'

'Are you sure, Ron? I mean, you never know with Malfoy, he sometimes does some really weird things. You missed Potions earlier...'

Their voices faded as I walked further away, a smirk on my face and a spring in my step, although I'd probably deny the latter in public.

At that moment, there was a party in my honour under way down in the dungeons, and I wanted to get there before Crabbe drank all the Firewhisky.

I just love my birthday.

~

Interlude: Liberality

liberality n the quality of being liberal; magnanimity; broadmindedness. [L liberalis befitting a freedman, from liber free]

~

Diary -

Today was Malfoy's birthday, although I suppose you knew that already. Today was his birthday, and I think it actually went okay.

I mean, the present was a hit, at least. He spent a lot of time saying each compliment in the most sarcastic voice he could muster, and I guess that was what he meant when he told me that they make great insults.

I knew the second I saw it that it was the perfect gift - not too serious, not too mean, and open to interpretation. Of course, I didn't know why I was buying it when I did. I just thought it would be a good joke, y'know, something to piss him off and possibly even - shock, horror - make him think at the same time. I didn't think it would come to mean anything, but it kinda has.

I say kinda because it isn't a promise ring or an emotional tie or anything like that, it's just...a private joke. Maybe.

I don't know.

When he used some of them before History of Magic today, to Ron and Hermione, the two of us almost shared a smile over them, which begs the question WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

I don't like Malfoy; I never did like Malfoy, and I don't understand how anyone could like him, except for the fact that he has a lot of money and a lot of influence, two things I myself have in abundance, whether I care to use them or not.

He also has annoyingly nice eyes, but that's hardly going to help him make friends, is it?

I suppose I should just leave it: after all, I guess that present was meant to be a sort of dig at him, but I don't know, he seemed to have a sense of humour or something today, even with streams of blood pouring down his face.

ARGH! I think I'm going to give up on this train of thought: it's getting me nowhere, and I don't even know what I'm trying to find out, anyway.

I've got more important things to worry about, as it is: Hermione wants me to go speak to Andy Moon to see how he feels about her. She's either planning to ask him out or break up with him; Mione's love life has always been taboo among the three of us; but I have to do it anyway. I hope for Ron's sake that it's a breakup, though: if he fell any more in love with her, he'd be wearing tights and serenading her from non-existent balconies.

I really should get some sleep, now, though: we're going to Hogsmeade tomorrow, and I don't want to be late again.

Oh, but before I forget, Malfoy gave Ron a five Galleon note. One of the new ones. I know, it's completely out of character, and I don't understand it. What's up with him today, has he been visited by the ghost of birthday past or something? Argh, lame joke, ignore me, it's nearly midnight.

Night,

Harry

~

'[Avarice] is a sin directly against one's neighbour, since one man cannot over-abound in external riches, without another man lacking them... it is a sin against God, just as all mortal sins, inasmuch as man contemns things eternal for the sake of temporal things.'

~ Thomas Aquinas, Medieval theologian