Lost in Thought

The Hogwarts hallway was quiet, almost deserted but for a few stragglers hurriedly returning back to their common rooms before the curfew. One of those stragglers was Patricia Stimpson.

Another was Kenneth Towler.

Patricia, at that precise moment, felt awfully proud of herself, as she had just finished a twenty-inch essay assigned by Snape and was certain it was perfect. A devoted Slytherin though she was, she couldn't help but dislike Snape. He reminded her of a worm - a sneering, greasy-haired worm - and bugs of any kind made her sick to her stomach. A minute's distance from her common room and ten minutes until the time she had to be back, she walked leisurely through the hallway, not joining up with any other group of Slytherins and clutching her books, each an extremely prized property, to her chest.

She was thinking. This involved looking at the ceiling, closing her eyes halfway, trusting herself to make it back to her dormitory automatically, and whistling the latest Weird Sisters song so quietly that it wouldn't interrupt her thoughts. She was thinking about worms, and the first time she'd seen one, back when she was a toddler. She'd picked it up, thinking it was candy (at that age, she'd thought everything was candy), and proceeded to get sick all over her mother's lawn.

This pleasant memory in mind, she suddenly collided with another student, sharply stopped whistling, snapped her head back in place, and, with a shock like she'd been punched in the stomach, fluttered her eyes open. Her books fell to the floor. Neither she nor the obstacle moved to pick them up.

The obstacle smiled. "I'm Kenneth Towler," he said.

"I know who you are," she growled, gently collecting her possessions into her arms.

"Charmed, I'm sure, Patricia."

"And you know who I am."

"'Course I do, Patty. We go way back. Or we would, if we did."

"Don't call me Patty," she replied, resuming her growl.

"Will do, Trisha."

Ignoring this comment, Patricia drew herself up to her full height, bordering on one hundred and seventy-five centimetres. Assuming a prefect's matter-of-fact tone (despite the fact that she wasn't one), she continued, "Anyway, his hallway leads only to the Slytherin quarters. Just where do you think you're going?" With the word "you", actual spit flew from the girl's mouth, as if to even acknowledge the Towler boy as a fellow student was a stretch. The spit landed on the collar of Kenneth's robes, but he gave her only a grin in return.

"On a date with you?" he retorted boldly.

"Excuse me?" she replied, appalled, but intrigued. With fair hair and skin diligently magicked free of blemishes, she had her share of admirers, but most of them were drippy younger boys like Draco Malfoy who sent her expensive wizarding chocolate and hexed first-years to get her attention. An exception was one of her less fondly remembered ex-boyfriends, Marcus Flint, three years her senior and of good lineage. The relationship had been endorsed by her parents and had lasted all of two miserable weeks of her fifth year.

"Well, how about it?" Kenneth continued casually, surprised he was curse-free after such forwardness. "I don't have a date for the Yule Ball and neither do you."

Her interest vanished, and was replaced by full-blown rage. "Even if I don't - which I might, you know! But even if I don't have a date - and that's not to say I don't have offers, you know! Loads of them! And from quite respectable sorts, I'll grant you! Even if I don't have a date, - yet! - I'd rather sit in my dormitory peeling my eyes out than go with you, of all people."

"Of all people?" he mused, now convinced she wouldn't try to hex him, walking around her in a small circle and not moving his gaze away from her reddened face. "Well, that's flattering. Me, of all people: Muggle-born Kenneth Towler, Gryffindor, non-prefect, non-Quidditch player, six-years both of us! I've got to say, that's impressive. You aren't at the top of my list, either, but there are certainly people I like less." He wrinkled his nose slightly. "Snape, for one," he said decisively. "Sure, I'd rather go to the Yule Ball, with, say, that girl from Beauxbatons, for instance, but she won't have me."

"And neither will I," concluded the Slytherin girl. She prepared to pivot gracefully and walk down the hallway in a huff, but his eyes were still on her. And quickly - before she could move, before the logical side of her brain could convince her that she wanted to move - Kenneth Towler brought his face in all the way and kissed Patricia Stimpson on her pursed and perplexed lips.

She almost started to kiss him back.

Then she fainted.

---

"Patricia, are you okay?"

She opened her eyes and dimly saw the familiar wallpaper of the hospital wing. Lovely. It must have all been a dream. One of her nightmares; she'd likely been up screaming, covered in goose pimples, acting mad and rushed off to her usual haunt where Madam Pomfrey was waiting, to help her through another incident in her quiet and concerned way.

Except that Madam Pomfrey's voice wasn't usually so deep.

And she didn't usually look like Kenneth Towler.

As her eyesight came back fully, Patricia sat bolt upright, turning from Kenneth to the real Madam Pomfrey in a daze, heart pounding and head throbbing. The kindly witch put an arm on Patricia's shoulder. "Now, now, lay back down. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again. This young man," she continued proudly, gesturing to Kenneth, "this young man has been so helpful. You're lucky to have a boyfriend like him, you know, always knew your taste would improve, even after you dated that ghastly Flint boy... Yes, simply lovely. He came in here, told me about how you suddenly fainted in the hallway for no reason at all; well, it's okay, dear, I understand. Things like that happen. You're all right. And lucky. It's so sweet about you two, what with the house rivalry and all. Always knew it'd be you that ended it, Patricia, such a darling, darling girl, it's a shame you're..." She broke off at Patricia's utterly aghast expression. "I understand. You need your rest. I'll leave you two to talk." She went to check on another patient.

There was a small silence, in which the two sixth-years exchanged looks: Kenneth's of worry, and Patricia's of amazement. "You told her I was your girlfriend?" she said weakly.

He flushed. "Look, I didn't know what else to say, I had to come here with you, I'm so sorry...I really didn't mean for you to...I didn't mean.... I'm a jerk. And idiot and a jerk. I can't believe I did that. I knew that you...sorta...faint...and stuff. Some Gryffindor I am, eh? More like a..." He stopped and flushed harder. "I'm sorry."

"More like a Slytherin?" Her voice was still coarse, but her face was slowly curving into a smile. "I know. I know how it feels. Believe me, we make fun of Gryffindor, too." Her smile broadened. "Incessantly."

He laughed. "I came into the hallway to see you, you know."

"I had my suspicions," she admitted.

Kenneth continued to look worried. He wasn't as close to her bed as he was when she first woke; he was keeping his distance. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, no real damage done, right?"

"No damage," Patricia confirmed. "I'm used to it. Haven't fainted in nigh on a month now - my body was probably in withdrawal. Never been kissed like that, either," she added with a snicker.

"About that..."

She stopped him. "Stop saying you're sorry. Apology is just another form of self-pity. I'd feel better if you didn't."

"No," he said hesitantly. There was a pause. He opened and closed one of her textbooks, sitting on the bedside table. "I was just...wondering, er, if I could do that again, except, you know, this time, with your permission..." He trailed off. It was physiologically impossible for his face to get redder.

With a slight quaver, Patricia heard herself murmur, "I'd love that."

He edged closer to her, and she carefully lifted herself from the bed. Their faces were inches apart. "So, I guess that's a yes for the Yule Ball?" he wondered softly.

She broke him off with a kiss.