Muggle Studies

There once was a girl
with a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
she was very, very good
But, when she was bad -- she was horrid.

---

Black, woolly school robes should bloody well be -illegal- in September -- even in Britain, Pansy Parkinson thought, fanning her face lazily with a well-thumbed copy of Witches' Wear Daily.

She stood with her mother and father toward the forward passenger cars of the Hogwarts Express, preparing to board. Mrs. Parkinson pressed a small basket into Pansy's hand.

"Just a few things for the ride," her mother said, affectionately. "There's enough there for you to share."

Pansy slid her finger delicately under one of the flaps and lifted it, seeing the flash of foil sweets wrappers as she peeked inside.

"Maybe. If Crabbe and Goyle aren't in my compartment, that is."

Platform 9 3/4 bustled with the usual activity accompanying the start of term at Hogwarts. The scarlet locomotive sparkled under the English sun, and sent periodic blasts of steam into the summer sky. Hogwarts students and their families filled the platform. Trunks and bags were being heaved systematically into the guard's van. Cloak pockets were carefully checked once -- and then again -- for the assurance nothing important had been forgotten. Various pets in their cages complained, disgruntled with the strange smells and disruptions which always accompany travel. This year parental affection was more readily tolerated by the students -- even by the sixth and seventh years. Owing to last term's catastrophic ending, the warmth and familiarity of a mother's kiss was especially treasured, although perhaps only covertly by some.

Of course, last term had culminated in the lovely event that was the third task of the Triwizard Tournament; Voldemort had killed Cedric Diggory, and had then been restored to near full power during some kind of bizarre, dark ritual involving Harry Potter.

At least that was the rumour.

The talk had begun immediately, whispered exaggerations and half-truths spreading rampantly through the wizarding world. Those who had actually been present at the tournament all recounted different versions of what had happened, despite witnessing the same events. Dumbledore's announcement of Voldemort's return, at the Hogwarts end-of-term feast, had been gravely straightforward; however, there had been nary a word on the subject from the Ministry of Magic. Conclusions were thus drawn based on innuendo and gossip -- and truly, many of the stories Pansy had heard over the holidays were laughable in their absurdity. Of course, the lack of solid information from official Ministry sources served only to further breed the embellished half-truths and clack, and it wasn't long until it was impossible to dependably rely on any information.

One thing was perfectly clear: this year the students were returning to Hogwarts under a shroud of uncertainty and fear. The familiar castle would undoubtedly be a stabilising factor for them, its strict routine something they could definitely count on, if nothing else. Grateful for the feeling of safety granted by these things, the students eagerly waited to board the train.

The Hogwarts Express gave two warning blasts from its steam whistle; it would be just five minutes until their journey would be underway.

Mr. Parkinson, who until then had been resting his hands protectively on his daughter's shoulders, turned Pansy toward him and drew her in with a fierce hug. Pansy relaxed into her father's arms, her own encircling his solid girth and clutching her basket's handles behind her father's back. She was comforted by the feel of his warm breath at the top of her head. Her father was not an overly demonstrative man so today’s affection was especially welcome. With a final squeeze he released her and planted a firm kiss upon her cheek.

"I love you, Daddy."

Her father clicked his heels together jovially and gave her a smart salute. "And I you, Flower."

Pansy turned to her mother and snuggled into her embrace. "Mummy," she murmured. She seldom contemplated the secure familiarity of her mother. But today, with her head resting gently upon her mother's chest, she enjoyed hearing the steady heartbeat coming from the folds of her mother's robes, and she inhaled her mother’s scent deeply, committing it to memory before breaking their embrace.

Her mother kissed each of Pansy's cheeks, and then, leveling a serious gaze at her daughter, spoke quietly. "Pansy, if there is anything you need to know. . . well, what I mean to say is should any information regarding the current state of things come to light -- from a reliable source, that is -- I shall keep you informed as best I can." Mrs. Parkinson cupped Pansy's cheek with an elegant hand. "And please, dear, do have a lovely term. Enjoy yourself. I’ve always believed -- when we are burdened with difficult days, especially -- it is important to strike a balance, and to reward oneself with occasional fun-and-games. Right then. I do love you so -- you know that, don't you?" Mrs. Parkinson straightened and Pansy's cheek was warm where her mother's hand had rested.

"I do know, Mum. I love you too," she said earnestly. "I will have fun, I promise. And I'll owl much more frequently this year -- really."

"Good, good. You know I always enjoy reading about your adventures. Do give my regards to Millicent and Blaise, won't you? Oh, and make sure Professor Snape gets his package immediately -- it’s perishable, you know." Mrs. Parkinson shooed her daughter toward the train.

"I will. All right, I'll be seeing you, then.

"And mind your tongue, Pansy!” her mother called after her. “Remember, it’s always best to be pleasant!"

Pansy smirked. "You always say that, Mother, but I still think you should give my way a try some time. It's much more fun," she retorted dryly.

Mrs. Parkinson wasn't fazed in the least -- Pansy's cheek was nothing new. "Pish! I daresay you'll come to prefer your pocket money over sarcastic quipping." She pulled on her lightweight travel gloves, carefully fitting her fingers into the airy cotton. "The alternative, of course, being you running your mouth alone in your dormitory, whilst your friends enjoy Hogsmeade without you."

"Just so you know," Pansy breezed, looking over her shoulder and completely glossing over her mother's point, "if you had offered up Knockturn Alley as an incentive, I might have actually considered your suggestion."

"Cheeky." Mrs. Parkinson shooed at Pansy again, her eyes twinkling. "Go on now. Don't miss the train."

Pansy presented her Hogwarts ticket at the foot of the coach’s steps and climbed aboard after receiving an affirmative nod from the guard. Her trunks had already been loaded so she only had a small satchel and her basket to ferry. Fortunately, there were still two empty compartments available. She selected a seat by the door and hoped she would only have to endure the hot sun blazing into the small enclosure for a few hours at the very most before its position shifted to the west. Pansy very much disliked being overly warm. She arranged her belongings along the area of the velvet bench closest to the compartment door, and then hurried back across the train's corridor to an open window which faced the platform, leaning out until she sighted her parents. She waved enthusiastically and blew silly, exaggerated kisses.

"Bye Mum! Bye Daddy!" Her parents smiled and waved one last time before turning and stepping back through the barrier to Kings Cross.

Pansy spotted Blaise and Millicent on the platform, hurrying toward the train. Her heart soared, and she practically fell from the window as she leaned forward eagerly.

"Blaise! Millicent!"

Blaise turned her head and a wide smile broke across her face. She jumped up and down excitedly, waving. "Pansy! There you are! I was wondering when I’d find you."

"Hey, save a seat for us," Millicent called, shifting her belongings clumsily.

"All right. Hurry up, though," Pansy said.

She had missed them ferociously. Typically, the three girls socialised regularly both at school and during their holidays; however, after the Triwizard events, Mr. Parkinson had insisted both Pansy and her mother remain out of Britain, at their vacation home on the island of Corfu. It was certainly a lush and beautiful locale; however, due to security concerns, Pansy had not been allowed to come and go as she pleased. Subsequently, she had often been bored.

The holidays had passed with only pleasure reading, her summer homework, and the WWN to keep her occupied. Well, there was owl post, but it certainly wasn't the same as spending time with one’s friends in person. Pansy had owled Blaise and Millicent daily, sometimes even twice. She had also maintained regular correspondence with Draco Malfoy. He had taken to sending her oddly cryptic letters, filled with rambling text and jokes that made her nose crinkle. Padma Patil had sent several letters, as well as Tracey Davis -- a fellow Slytherin. She had even been quite surprised to receive a postcard from Vincent Crabbe, who, also as a precautionary measure, had holidayed with his parents far away, in the United States.

His postcard had been quite odd, really. Brunswick, Missouri, it had boasted, and it had featured an image of a brown, lumpy. . .well, Pansy wasn't exactly sure what it was, until she read further:

She wasn't particularly surprised Crabbe’s postcard had featured an enormous food item. She also surmised the Ministry Aurors wouldn't first think to look for supposed Death Eaters in America, particularly in the home of the world's largest pecan.

Shifting, Pansy spotted Harry Potter leaning against the brick wall just to the left of the platform barrier.

Pansy had often thought about him this summer, due to the Triwizard Tournament, although she had never given him much consideration before. Yes, she knew his story -- who didn't? She had picked him out of the crowd of first-years, when they had all been waiting to be Sorted four years ago, and had discretely appraised him, and had not come away with the impression that he was anything other than a regular wizard boy. He certainly did not look as special as he reportedly was -- in fact, she found him prosaically ordinary. And this was still true, although he had grown taller. Most of her male classmates were doing the same. Pansy didn't find Harry Potter to be particularly interesting at all. In fact, the only thing she knew about Harry Potter’s life outside of Hogwarts was he spent his summer with rather horrid Muggle relatives, which she and Draco both found incredibly amusing. Otherwise Potter was enigmatic to her, not that she was particularly interested in his details anyway. She had -- fleetingly, usually during moments of profound boredom -- at times pondered what it might be like to converse with him, or even to be friends with him; however, she also figured anybody who knew him by sight, or from the legend of The Boy Who Lived had likely wondered the same thing at some point.

She thought of this as she watched Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger approached him together. Lightly touching Harry's arm, Hermione greeted her friend with enthusiasm. Harry's eyes lit at the sight of his two closest friends, and he was immediately drawn into conversation with them. Pansy supressed the urge to unleash a torrent of random profanities at the trio; the mere sight of them disgusted her thoroughly. It always had, and she knew one thing for certain: she would never know what it would be like to be friends with Harry Potter. And that was fine. She was convinced he was inherrently overrated, for, aside from the slight intrigue of the overrated, marring gash on his forehead, she had yet to discern a single exciting thing about him.

At exactly eleven o'clock, the Hogwarts Express gave its final whistle, signaling its imminent departure. The Gryffindor trio linked arms, Hermione in the middle, tugging the two reluctant boys forward, and hastily made their way past Pansy's window, heading for a coach slightly further down the train. As she was about to turn from her window and head back across the corridor to her compartment, two last-minute stragglers exploded through the barrier and raced with their trolleys toward the train, which was now starting to lurch forward.

"Wait! WAIT!"

"WE'RE HERE! DON'T LEAVE US!

The Weasley twins chucked their battered trunks up the train stairs and leapt in after them. They would be too late to appropriate their baggage to the guard’s van. Pansy left the window and returned to her compartment. She discovered her seat had been usurped. She rolled her eyes and tilted her head slightly as her mouth curled into a sly grin.

"Hello, Draco."

Draco Malfoy's legs were stretched across the compartment, and he rested his feet on the bench opposite him. Of the eight available spots he had, naturally, settled himself into the very seat Pansy had wanted for herself.

"You're crushing my things," she noted.

Languidly, the pale boy stretched his arms and upper body with nonchalant grace before dropping his feet to the compartment floor with a heavy clunk. He stood and took her hand briefly as he planted a perfunctory kiss on her cheek in greeting. He had grown and, for the first time in their lives, Pansy had to look up to meet his eyes.

"Hello there, Pansy! A shame about your things. I must not have seen them there." Releasing her hand, he folded himself into the seat opposite hers and examined her from across the way with interested grey eyes. Her smirk widened.

"You didn't feel yourself sitting on a wooden picnic basket? I'd think the handles would have worked their way into a most uncomfortable spot," she teased.

The corner of Draco's mouth lifted imperceptibly as he tilted his head back and cocked a pale eyebrow. "Very funny," he sniffed, but his eyes were relaxed and friendly. With Draco, Pansy could read beyond the obvious.

The compartment door slid open and Millicent and Blaise came through and the three girls enveloped each other immediately, and dissolved into a bouncing trio of squeals.

It was Draco's turn to roll his eyes. "Honestly! Book a room, you three. Actually, check that. Let’s all get a room -- just think of the fun," he drawled, his cheeky grin the sole hint at his adolescent glee.

"You’re a naughty boy," Pansy laughed, cuffing his arm playfully.

"Oh, you really have no idea, Pans," he retorted, with a lascivious grin.

"Well, I'm sure you'll tell your hand all about it later tonight -- and whisper sweet little nothings to your fingers all the while."

"What, I can't tell your hand instead?" he asked blandly, throwing an innocent look.

Pansy mirrored his expression, and waggled her fingers at him teasingly. "You wish!"

Again the door slid open, and Malcolm Baddock, Crabbe, and Goyle admitted themselves into the compartment. As more greetings were being exchanged, odd sounds began reverberating down the corridor. Suddenly, there was a loud, crashing THUD. Together, the Slytherins peeked out from their compartment and looked down the corridor. The source was immediately revealed, and Pansy groaned inwardly.

The Weasley twins were wrestling their trunks down the aisle. Drag. Thump. Drag. Thump. They dragged and thumped their way past the Slytherins’ compartment, all the way to the front of the coach; it wasn’t but five minutes before the sounds became progressively louder; the twins were making their way back.

I'm not keen on sitting here," said one to the other, in a low whisper. Pansy could never tell them apart.

"Well, there's nowhere else and I'm not dragging this bloody trunk one step further," came the reply.

The Weasleys brothers arranged their luggage and took the last available seats in the coach -- which happened to be in the Slytherins’ compartment. Draco tensed immediately, a predatory expression casing his angular face. Pansy deduced it was more a defensive reaction than a confrontative one, as Draco Malfoy loathed all things Weasley. The twins, having also appraised the situation, were clearly just as uncomfortable.

"Crabbe. Goyle," came the stilted greetings. "Malfoy, girls . . ."

"Weasleys," Draco clipped icily, before turning to stare pointedly out the coach’s window. Pansy inclined her head slightly in a perfunctory acknowledgement, while Crabbe and Goyle ignored the two Gryffindors completely.

Truth told, if their world hadn't recently imploded, such a scene would probably played much differently. Had things not unfolded the way they did, the Weasleys, and their fellow Gryffindors, would have likely begun immediately trading insults with the Slytherins, and would have tried mercilessly to slip their innocuous-looking gag treats into any unguarded Slytherin robes they could find. In return, the Slytherins had aimed their rudest, most embarrassing hexes at the Gryffindors, and oh, did they ever have a fabulous repertoire at their disposal.

Last year, Draco had managed to hit Granger with an especially putrid flatulence charm; subsequently, the girl had cleared the entire coach with the effects of the charm. Her infinite mortification had been the source of Slytherin mirth for months afterward. Pansy and Blaise had taken to slipping digestive biscuits into Hermione’s cavernous rucksack during their shared classes, or dropping a few onto her plate as they passed the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall during meals. It had made for marvelous folly.

Draco, of course, had been completely in his element.

Oh Gods, Granger," he had said for the umpteenth time during Potions, as the familiar Gryffindor hand shot into the air. "Stop tooting your own horn! Oh wait, I forgot. You’re particularly skilled in the 'tooting' department, aren’t you? Well, I suppose we should encourage even the Muggle-born to hone their innate talents -- banal as they might be."

"Oh shut up, Malfoy, you despicable troll! It’s probably a skill you could use. Then maybe you wouldn’t be so full of hot air."

"Why, Granger! How thoughtful of you to be concerned for my well-being; however, I assure you, my digestive system needs no assistance."

"Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for deliberately provoking Mr. Malfoy’s ire," Snape had interjected as he breezed by Hermione's desk, an icy smile of cruel satisfaction forcing his this lips from their usual dormancy.

"Oooo!" Hermione slammed herself around in her seat, fuming.

The sniggering had been quite pervasive. Even Potter and Weasley had had to struggle ferociously in order to maintain a supportive facade in front of their friend. Weasley had erupted into a massive coughing fit after choking on his own saliva, whilst trying not to laugh at Hermione's shame. Potter had cleared his throat repeatedly while pretending to intently study his notes, carefully guarding his composure. Hermione's face had burned scarlet with humiliation as she primly straightened herself in her seat and pointedly fixed her gaze forward.

Pansy had thought the girl a true glutton for punishment. Regardless of how Draco tortured her, she seemed unable to keep from answering every single question. No matter the circumstances, her hand continued to shoot upward. Even in Potions! Albeit in an odd way, it was, well, somewhat admirable on Hermione's part. No wonder she’s a Gryffindor, Pansy had thought.

This year, though, it was as if nobody knew . . . well, quite how to start off. The truth that their lives had been irrevocably changed by last year’s events had wedged itself firmly into their basic social foundation. It was impossible to feel that this was just another normal beginning to a normal Hogwarts term. It wasn't normal, yet the exact cause of the change in atmosphere was incogitable. It was everything, yet it was . . . nothing. Well, nothing Pansy had been able to precisely put her finger on anyway. Like a child waking from a nightmare, in many ways she felt disoriented in what had once been her safe little world, as if she didn't know what was real or what was true. She found this very disconcerting.

Owing to her isolated holiday, Pansy had available to her the benefit of uninterrupted time to reflect extensively on the Triwizard events in relation to her own existence.

Foremost, her intuition had immediately convinced her Dumbledore had spoken truthfully at last year's end-of-term feast. Pansy, quietly, had faith in the Hogwarts Headmaster. Her parents spoke relatively civilly of Dumbledore. Even still, the thought of her life unfurling within a world with the freshly resurrected Voldemort was extraneous. To her, Voldemort had always been little more than a legend -- a Bogeyman of sorts. With his re-emergence, it was exceedingly difficult to anticipate, well, anything really with any sense of insight. And, despite his apparent precedence in the matter, having had Harry Potter as her classmate for the past four years had done absolutely nothing to clarify for Pansy the reality of their world held fast by the dark wizard’s reign.

One thing she did know, though. She knew perfectly well Slytherin House's history. Tom Riddle’s lore was no secret. Who he had eventually become was absolutely known by many -- Dumbledore’s belief to the contrary aside. It was just not something they talked about easily, especially with members of any other house.

Voldemort was a juxtaposition, really. When Pansy thought of the thousands of noble Slytherin wizards and witches who came before her -- and those still yet to come -- who were now irrevocably associated with one dark wizard's reign of death, fear, destruction, and the Dark Arts, it angered her deeply, for Voldemort's methods were hardly genteel. It shouldn't have to surprise her classmates -- although it always did -- that the average Slytherin might be more inclined to pull a gentle, fluffy rabbit from a hat, than they would a basilisk or a Kappa.

Her own generation wasn't immune from these prejudices either. Pansy took most of her classmates’ innuendo with a grain of salt -- as most Slytherins did -- having mastered the art of sarcastic deflection at a rather young age. When they became overly annoying, she was remarkably capable of petty insults and exceptionally well-placed barbs. She had a cruelly sharp tongue, to which the rather large stack of owl posts sitting upon her mother’s desk from the Headmaster’s office would clearly attest.

Pansy had known she would be a Slytherin before she came to Hogwarts, and, just like Draco, the Sorting Hat had needed only the faintest whiff of the top of her head before calling it forth. Most of the children she had grown up with were now her house and classmates, and their parents were friends with one another. They came from well-established, upper-echelon wizarding families, and they had cultivated a comfortably isolated niche in the wizarding community, both socially and financially. Their inner circle was tight, and they wholly believed Slytherin House was the highest honour the Sorting Hat could bestow upon a first-year. She didn't care of her housemates' background or bloodlines. If they were sorted to Slytherin, they were at the very least worthy of her cursory consideration.

Naturally, she had gleaned information about Voldemort from adult conversations over the years, and she was aware loyalties in her family’s social circle were anything but straightforward. Until the events of the Triwizard third task, she had not cared at all of such things.

Cedric. . . Pansy had been deeply disturbed by his death. No, she hadn't known him particularly well, but in death he instantly became representative to her of her peers in general. He was just a boy -- just a pleasant, grey-eyed, sixth-year boy. One day he was there, eating dinner in the Great Hall; the next morning came and he wasn't at breakfast. He was never again at breakfast. To Pansy, Cedric Diggory was the first tangible inkling of the chaotic randomness of life.

She knew Voldemort's foremost agenda had always been wizarding purity. Yet Cedric had been from an old line of pure-bloods, hadn’t he? When she thought of Voldemort's Death Eaters, she couldn't help but wonder how any person in their right mind would freely bestow blind allegiance upon a leader who wantonly destroyed the very beings he professed to covet.

It seemed very odd.

She had heard -- second-hand, actually -- what Draco had said on the train about Voldemort at the end of last term, and she understood how an allegiance with a powerful wizard might seem a practical conduit to an ambitious youth like him; however, privately, she had thought him stupid for saying what he had. Putting it lightly, subtlety had never been one of Draco’s strong points -- there was petty inner-house tormenting, sure -- but then there was politics, and the latter definitely called for subtlety, ambiguity, and an unbreachable wall of silence.

She realised, as she contemplated lazily, that she had always known him.

Their mothers enjoyed each other's company, and their fathers socialised cordially as well. She had always observed Mr. Malfoy as the kind of man who kept social interactions on a very superficial level. He was an extremely imposing, intimidating figure -- the very embodiment of a grand and stately wizard of the finest bloodlines. As well, the Zabini family was close to the Parkinsons. Blaise had always been a vivacious, cunning, and beautiful girl, and she brought out perfectly Pansy's mischievous side. The schemes the two girls had concocted over the years had more than once landed them both in a hot cauldron. Several times they had put forth practical jokes specifically designed to frame Draco as the responsible miscreant, and they had found it enormously funny watching the skinny, pale boy vehemently protesting his innocence. It was funny that is, until -- while shamelessly eavesdropping on her mother and Narcissa Malfoy -- Pansy had overheard his mother discussing Draco and how he had been corporally punished for her and Blaise’s tricks. Her insides had twisted with shame. Draco, although clever and outspoken, had been a rather meticulous, peculiar boy -- before he had begun mercilessly cultivating his inner bully, that is.

* * * * *

Pansy relaxed her head against the soft velvety seat and stared absentmindedly out the window, the clackety-clack of the train's heavy wheels running the rails threatening to lull her to sleep. The beautiful English countryside melded into a muted collage of whizzing colour as her eyelids became progressively heavier. She had stayed up much too late the night before, packing last minute items. When she had finally crawled into bed she had lain awake for quite a long time, waves of excited anticipation rolling through her mind.

Pansy yawned and stretched; perhaps a snack would help.

Opening a Chocolate Frog her mother had packed for her, she bit the top half away from the gooey brown amphibian before it could seize upon an opportunity for escape. Swallowing her first mouthful, she inspected the Wizard Card she pulled from the empty package, popping the still-wiggling legs into her mouth.

Marito Vescor (1686-1872):A great Wizard of Italian descent, Vescor is infamous for his vigor toward the opposite sex, having been married no less than eighteen times during his 186 years. He is rumoured to have fathered 197 children. Originator of the Dark charm Infusco-Amoritas, Vescor's amourous tendencies ultimately necessitated his emasculation by the Cocquocaestus Potion, which successfully prevented further rogue behavior on his part. Vescor enjoyed fine wine, reading, and foreign travel.

From the card, Marito Vescor gave Pansy a dazzling smile and waggled his eyebrows at her, and held his arms out to her. "Ah! Un molto bello signora. . ."

"Oh, honestly," she snorted, turning the card face down. Here was clearly a lecherous ancestor of Professor Lockhart, she was sure of it.

"What's funny?" Blaise asked.

"I’ve just been chatted up by a wizard card!"

Blaise broke into a fit of giggles. “Oh, was it Professor Lockhart, then?"

“No, but a relation, I’ve no doubt. At least this bloke knows his own name, though," Pansy said, casually flicking the amorous Vescor in the direction of her basket. She rose and smoothed down her robes. "I'm going for a drink."

"I’ll go with you," said Draco, standing immediately.

All right. Anybody else want anything?"

"Sure, water would be good. Thanks," Blaise said, her composure regained.

Millicent was totally absorbed in her sketchbook, her fingers smudged from her charcoal pencils. "No, nothing for me. I'm okay."

Draco peeked across Millicent's sketch. "What are you drawing today?"

"A nude."

"Oh, excellent! Let's see it, then."

Millicent flipped the page around.

"God, Bulstrode. That's a man!" Draco said, his nose wrinkling.

Millicent smirked. "You asked."

Malcolm Baddock was asleep on the seat, curled up next to Millicent. Crabbe and Goyle declined drinks and, while they were answering, Pansy noticed Draco was staring at her, a strange, distant look on his face.

"Do I have something on my robes, Draco?" Pansy asked, glancing down and brushing at the rich black fabric with the back of her fingers."

Draco shook his head. "No, your robes. . . they’re just fine."

Pansy shrugged. "Well, let's go then."

Not bothering to enquire after the Weasleys, they went in search of the witch with the food trolley. They didn't find her in their coach, so they headed down the corridor and made to pass through to the next car. As they squeezed between the two coaches they found themselves face to face with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who were coming from the opposite direction. Pansy figured they were likely heading to visit with George and Fred. Quite inadvertently, Potter had pulled open the door just as Pansy had pushed on it, and it had flung open with more force than usual, causing Pansy to stumble slightly. Reflexively, Potter put out his hand to steady her.

"All right?"

In a flash, Draco reached out and brutally shoved the other boy against the door. Pansy stepped back in surprise and Potter's eyes widened.

"Don’t touch her," Draco hissed.

Pansy stared at Draco, confused. "I'm fine." She shook her head discretely at him, furrowing her brow. "Cut it out." She shifted her gaze coolly to Harry. "Watch where you're going, dumbarse!"

Ron gave her the finger as Harry pushed Draco’s hands aside. "I don’t know what your problem is this time, Malfoy, but I’m not getting into it with you."

"Malfoy, you’re mental," Weasley said, shaking his head, throwing a final glare Pansy's way. "Harry didn't mean to bump Parkinson. It was clearly an accident!" He pulled at the back of Harry's robes. "I reckon he'd rather gargle a mouthful of flesh-eating slugs than touch your puggy girlfriend!"

Potter’s eyes were green slits, but no retaliatory strike came. “It was just an accident," he said, rubbing his elbow, which had crashed against the metal door of the compartment when Draco had pushed him. "Parkinson, you seem to be alive and well," he finished curtly. "Unfortunately."

"Piss off, Potter." Pansy tugged at Draco's arm. "Come on -- let’s just get on with it." The four exchanged final glares as they eased warily around one another.

The trolley was halfway down the corridor of the next coach. Several students were already clustered around for concessions, so she and Draco fell into the queue. Pansy cocked her head.

"Well?"

"Well what?" He studiously avoided her eyes.

"What was that was all about?"

"He shouldn’t be pushing you around."

"Since when have you cared who pushes me around?” she asked.

Draco's eyes shifted; he remained silent.

Pansy continued. "You know, you’re acting quite ridiculously. It's obvious what part of you those new extra inches were drained from -- your brain! What’s the matter with you anyway?" She considered him questioningly, tilting her head as she examined him for the slightest of clues which might explain his behaviour.

"You think I'm taller?" His eyes widened slightly at this, a hint of a grin playing at his lips. Pansy could swear she saw him hitch his shoulders back just a touch.

"Yes," she said, stone-faced. "So do us all a favour and stop wearing white socks with your dark trousers and shoes."

Draco flicked a glance toward his feet before raising his eyes to hers again. "To answer your question," he said haughtily, his careful persona fully back in place, "nothing's the matter. What, don’t you care for chivalry?"

Pansy pulled a face. "Don’t even try and tell me you’re contemplating trying to claim that particular attribute," she said, turning her back to him. He’s acting very strangely, she thought. For a moment he was silent.

"I'll have you know that I never wear white socks," he said petulantly. "White socks are tacky."

Pansy shot a glance over her shoulder. "If you never wore white socks, you wouldn't have checked just now."

Finally, it was their turn and, after making their purchases, they headed back toward their car, balancing Pumpkin Pasties, taro crisps, and a bag of cockroach-free Cockroach Clusters (it was just like turtle sweets, sans peanuts, Draco always said), passing by a compartment of Ravenclaws. Pansy stopped to talk with Padma Patil, Terry Boot, and Anthony Goldstein.

"I see you're both looking absolutely smashing in your new robes and badges," Pansy said, leaning casually against the doorframe of the Ravenclaws' compartment. "Congratulations!"

Padma flushed with pride and Anthony grinned broadly. Both had shiny prefect badges pinned smartly to their crisp, black robes.

"Patil," Draco acknowledged. "Goldstein. Boot."

"Hello, Malfoy," Padma said, looking up.

"Hey there," Anthony said, his nose already buried back in his book.

Terry gave a wave from where he sat. "Hi Pansy. Malfoy. Did you have nice holidays, then?"

"They were boring. Could have been tonnes better,” Draco drawled lazily, inspecting a fingernail.

"Anyhow," Padma said, ignoring Draco, "thanks for the congratulations, Pansy! Same to you! I was so excited to be asked."

"Me, too." Pansy turned to look over her shoulder. "Draco, quit bumping me. There’s plenty of room," She lightly pushed him a step back from her.

"Pansy," Draco said impatiently, pushing back at her. "Come on. Let’s go back. We’ve said hello."

"Go yourself, then. I want to talk."

"You won't be long?"

"Just go, would you?" she said, shooing him out the door. He shrugged, then gave a brief wave, and strode down the corridor.

Padma patted the seat next to her, and Pansy slid in eagerly.

Initially, they'd been forced together as Divination partners during their third year; however, as the months passed, Pansy had grown to very much enjoy the other girl's presence, especially as neither of them cared much for Divination. She wasn't sure if this was due to the subject matter itself, or owing more to the overt foolery of Professor Trelawney. At times, Padma and she made arrangements to study together in the library, and they sometimes socialised during trips to Hogsmeade.

Both Pansy and Padma enjoyed Herbology immensely, and when Ravenclaw and Slytherin had been assigned to the same greenhouse during their fourth year, they had eagerly partnered up. Professor Sprout had asked for student volunteers to plan and implement a new project (Professor Sprout had called it a "Community Garden") and Pansy and Padma had taken on the challenge together. They had discussed their plans for the garden several times over the summer via owl, and Pansy had organised their ideas into a special book of bound parchment for them to both reference during the upcoming year.

She loved magical flowers and plants, and had spent many a happy day working alongside her mother in her family's gardens during the spring and summer months. Her mother had taught Pansy a sweet little gardening song when she had started joining her mother in the gardens, following her first year at Hogwarts:

A bit of earth.
She wants a little bit of earth,
she'll plant some seeds . . .

The seeds will grow,
the flowers bloom,
their beauty just the thing she needs.

She'll grow to love the tender roses,
Lilies fair, the iris tall . . .
Yet when autumn falls, her bit of earth
Will freeze and kill them all . . .

Pansy was extremely ambitious when it came to discerning the specific needs of a plant and caring for it accordingly. She was always rewarded for her diligence with beautiful, vibrant blooms, and leaves so green they glowed with an iridescent emerald aura. When she discussed flowers and plants with Padma she never felt obligated to politely limit her conversation, for fear of boring the other girl -- they were both equally as enthusiastic about the subject.

"Pansy, you really look very good. Did you change your hair?" Padma asked, patting the spot next to her. She decided to chat for a few minutes and took the proffered seat.

"Oh. Um, no, not really -- but thank you! Well, I guess I have been growing my fringe out this past year. It’s probably just that it’s finally blending in with the rest of my length." Her hair was dark and straight; the summer in Corfu hadn't left even the slighest highlight in its inky fall. They discussed fashion briefly, and then O.W.L.s, which were now on the distant horizon. They caught a quick game of Gobstones, and then Pansy bantered briefly with Terry, who actually seemed slightly flirtatious -- for a bookworm, that is -- before making her way back toward her own housemates.

Chaos had erupted during her absence.

Blaise beckoned her over frantically.

"Why do I have the feeling I really don’t need to ask who started this. . ." she murmured, coming up behind Blaise, who had fled from the scuffle in their compartment and was currently pressed against the window opposite the compartment’s door. "Where’s Millicent?"

"She’s gone to the loo. It just now started," Blaise explained. She gestured toward Draco. "He started in with Potter, and then the Weasleys got involved. . .”

Ron and Fred Weasley had Draco pinned against the outer wall of the compartment, and Fred’s wand was pointed directly between Draco's eyes. Harry Potter was trying, unsuccessfully, to talk Ron from the compartment. Crabbe had George Weasley in a headlock, though the much-smaller Weasley boy was actually giving the bulky Slytherin quite a run for his money. It was all Crabbe could do to contain George, and his beefy face was red from the exertion. Malcolm Baddock was standing on the bench seat and was pressed tightly into the corner of the compartment, attempting to avoid any ensuring danger.

Hermione had clearly had come along while Pansy had been in the other car visiting with Padma and Terry, and she had a firm grasp on Crabbe's belt loops. She had one leg braced against the foot of the seat and was straining to pull him from George Weasley.

Amidst the ruckus, Pansy noticed Goyle further down the coach. He was actually creeping from one compartment to the next, loading his arms full of snacks and treats hastily left behind as the students had abandoned their compartments for the show. Eww, she cringed, no wonder we Slytherins get the brunt of it!

Millicent was making her way back through the crowd. She eyed Pansy. "Aren't you going to do anything?"

Pansy shrugged. "No. If they're going to behave like complete and utter prats, who am I to interfere?"

"Umm," Millicent said, cocking her eyebrow, "a prefect?"

"Oh, don't be so silly," Pansy waved her hand at her friend. "They're just being stupid boys." She ducked a shoe, which came hurtling through the air at her head. "Go ahead if you want, Mill. I give you permission. Anyway, you're tonnes better at charms than I am..." Millicent grinned slyly and pulled her wand.

"With pleasure," she smirked. "Expelliarmus Weasleys!"

Two things happened simultaneously: The three Weasleys were abruptly drawn through the air and landed in a heap at Millicent’s feet. With no one holding him up, Draco crashed roughly to the ground, falling soundly onto his arse with a painful thud. "Bloody fuck!" he sputtered angrily, his eyes flashing as he struggled to his feet. He rubbed his arse through his robes.

Harry abandoned Draco to the evacuated Slytherin compartment and rushed to the Weasleys’ sides. With George ripped from the crook of his arm by the force of Millicent’s disarming charm, Crabbe was unexpectedly propelled backward by Hermione's grasp on his belt. Stumbling backward, arms spinning, he crushed the girl into the seat behind them, landing on top of her in a piled, clumsy tangle.

"Ooof!" The sound was forced from Hermione by Crabbe’s bulk. "Get off me, Crabbe, you great, fat lump!"

Ron was on his feet again and within seconds he was eye to eye with Malfoy.

"What the bloody hell’s the matter with you, Malfoy? You should be turned over to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures!"

Draco's normally tidy hair was askew and his Slytherin tie had been pulled loose during the scuffle. His sneer deepened and he stepped forward menacingly. "You're the one to talk, Weasley. Like you’re so virtuous? All the Weasels plus The Potty against only myself. How typical. Then again," Draco's eyes narrowing dangerously, "I suppose I really shouldn't be surprised, as the Weasley gaggle is big enough for their own private militia."

"And I can’t help but notice that your parents stopped after one,” Ron retorted. “But, I reckon inbreeding does have that inherent squick factor."

"Well, at least my mother can cross a room without worrying she's going to drop another ugly ginger pup from her fanny.”

"Draco!" Pansy covered her mouth, hiding a smile. A hush passed over the crowd.

Ron lunged. "You disgusting piece of shite," he fumed, eyes bulging, his wand out. Once again, Millicent was quick to the draw.

"Expelliarmus!" she cried again, directing her wand first to Ron. "Accio wand!" Millicent quickly turned to the twins and disarmed them as well, catching all three wands deftly. "I think it’ll be best if I keep these until Hogwarts,” she said, firmly, pocketing their wands. Ron attempted to rush Draco again; Millicent was ready. "Ferrumino Errabundus!" Magical ropes whipped up and around Ron's body, tightly encasing his arms and legs, and suspending him in the air. He bobbed uselessly a few inches above the ground.

"Hey!" He protested angrily, struggling vainly against his restraints.

"Thank you, Millicent," Draco sniffed pompously.

Millicent regarded Draco as if he were lower than toad crap, and determinedly pointed her wand. Draco’s eyes widened.

"Subsutus Morsicatim!"

Draco’s mouth disappeared. Exaggerated stitching whipped neatly across the area where his pouting lips had just been, like a silly rag doll's mouth. Under any other circumstances, Pansy would have treated herself to a ferocious belly laugh, especially when she saw a natty red button, which Millicent had apparently conjured for extra emphasis, appear over the X-like stitching which had replaced Draco’s troublesome gob. Nice touch, Mills, she thought.

Draco grunted uselessly at Millicent, who stared sullenly back at him.

George approached Draco without a trace of his usual humour, striding purposefully to where Draco sat, his face contorting strangely. Millicent, wary, readied her wand, but George shook his head at her.

"Don't even bother," he said, his voice flat as he brought his face to Malfoy’s. "You’ll have to listen to me now won’t you, you contemptible, odious prick. I don't know who the bloody hell you think you are --— no, check that. We all know who you think you are. . ." George gritted his teeth angrily, “but at least we can say our family is an asset to the wizarding community. You really are the perfect example of how true the saying 'money never guarantees class' can be." George poked Draco between the eyes. "Wizards' Duel, Malfoy. I'm challenging you. We're settling this once and for all. And when I win -- and believe me I will -- you will never again speak of our Mum. Not ever." He gave Draco a brutal poke between the eyes and sent the Slytherin’s head knocking back against the compartment wall. “And if you do, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born."

Excited murmurings traveled throughout the coach. A wizards' duel! Nobody could remember a formal duel taking place at Hogwarts during their time. Millicent's binding charm having worn off, Ron drew himself up next to his brother, arms folded over his chest.

"I’m your second, George."

Draco gesticulated wildly and pointed fiercely at his mouth.

Millicent was all business. "Trust me -- I'll bind you again in a dead second if I have to. Finite Incantatum."

The stitches unraveled, disappearing; with a *pop* the red button followed.

"A duel?" Draco sniffed contemptuously, compulsively smoothing his robes back into place. "A duel? What, with those fossilized twigs your family uses for wands? Oh, please. They’re a menace to personal safety."

"Pretty sure of yourself aren't you Malfoy? Shall we make a little wager then?" George asked, his lips upturning slyly. "Put your money-that-you-oh-so-love-to-brag-about where your vile mouth is?"

"Wow, that's a shiny offer, Weasley, but my mother's always taught me it's unkind to take advantage of the poor," Draco smirked derisively. "Owing to the fact that chronic malnutrition leads to impaired brain functioning. But, really, that is rich! I'm sure you don't have a single Knut to wager. Of course there are other things I might find useful. . ." He feigned deep introspection. "A personal servant, for example. . .of course that wouldn’t be much of a stretch for the working poor --"

"It's a figure of speech, you prat!" George cut him off. "Besides, I would never take your rotten money. Like you’d ever miss it? Where's the fun in that. Oh, no -- I'd find a much better come-uppance for you."

"And what's that?" Draco's eyes sparkled maliciously. "You going to force me to eat your mother's garden gnome pie? Resourceful woman, your mother."

Ron lunged again; Harry caught him by the scruff of his neck, restraining him. Pansy snorted into her hand at the prospect of gnome pie. "Fuck off, Parkinson!" Ron spat, his chest heaving.

"Is that all you can say, Weasel?" she asked sweetly. "Draco must be right about the chronic malnutrition thing."

"Shut up, Parkinson," George said, tossing a glare her way. He returned his attention to Draco. "You are so lucky I'm choosing to ignore that, Malfoy. Don’t play stupid -- you know the guidelines for a formal dueling wager. We'll need a Scylla Messorius -- and a neutral one to boot."

Draco took exactly one second to decide. His chest puffed out like a peacock’s and his chin rose haughtily into the air. "All right, then," he said; Pansy could tell he was amused at the prospect. "I accept your challenge. Who shall our Scylla be? I know-- I nominate Professor Snape."

"Don't be stupid," Fred Weasley interjected, elbowing his way in front of his brother, "You heard what George said, Malfoy -- a neutral third party. Like Dumbledore for instance. . ."

"Oh, please," Draco massaged his temples, now irritated. "You all really need to learn to scrounge for food more effectively . . . Dumbledore? There isn’t a more overt lover of all things Gryffindor alive in this world today."

Harry stepped in. "No one is more fair than Dumbledore, Malfoy. And as far as your totally baseless accusations against him go--"

"Shut up, Potter," Draco cut the other boy off, and this time there was no bemusement in his voice. "As if you of all people would be able to see Dumbledore’s bias -- what with being his personal little pet and all. Tell me -- is it true the old man keeps a supply of cruppie treats in his pocket just for you? That’s always been the rumour." Draco's voice dripped venomously. "This matter is between me and Weasley. Now, for once in your soddingly noble and boring life, fuck off and mind your own bloody business!"

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione held him in check with a quick hand to his forearm. "It's not worth it, Harry," she said loftily. "Malfoy's not worth it." Draco threw her a withering look.

"Professor Sinistra, then," George suggested evenly.

"No," Draco said, "she's too chummy with McGonagall. Trelawny or Sprout?"

George considered this momentarily. "Definitely not Sprout. I've been on the outs with her for years -- insufferably boring, Herbology is at that,” he said. "Trelawny? No, I don't think so. Well, maybe. . .no, I just don’t think so. No on Trelawney."

"What's wrong with Trelawney?" Draco asked.

"I question her sanity," George said. "Hell, she bloody well can't remember any of our names!

"It's not her fault you all look alike," Draco retorted. "All ugly and poor and red . . . "

"How about. . .Filch?" Hermione Granger interjected, shooting a warning glance at Ron. "He’s not biased in the least." The crowd looked at her as if she were barking mad. “Well, what I mean is Filch basically hates all of us students."

Hmm, Pansy acknowledged to herself. Granger's rather right.

"Well, I suppose that's true," George said slowly. "Although our file's pretty thick with him." He nodded his head toward his twin as he spoke. "Malfoy?"

"You two haven't cornered the market on private drawers in Filch's filing cabinet, you know. I suppose he'll do."

George stepped away from Draco and smirked. “Hermione, it should be noted publicly -- for the record -- so that all of Hogwarts might know that Malfoy here has accepted your idea as the best solution to our dilemma. Right, then. We'll ask Filch tonight after the feast."

"No," Millicent interjected firmly, "We start with Dumbledore. It's not against the rules to wage a formal duel at Hogwarts, but you have to alert the headmaster. . .and your head of house. You two will have to explain the circumstances surrounding this challenge. And Dumbledore will have to approve your Scyllae and cast the Scyllae Messorium."

"We can't organise this for tomorrow evening," Draco whinged. "What with the start of term, and all the new students to worry over, Dumbledore will be impossible to even find tonight, much less able to hold an impromptu meeting with us about a duel!"

"I know where to find Professor Dumbledore at night," Harry said, staring pointedly at Draco. "We'll all meet in front of the large gargoyle statue after the feast. I’m sure you know the one I mean -- it’s down the corridor and up the stairs from the library."

Draco’s cold eyes regarded his Gryffindor rival, his jaw twitching. "You're just always ever so helpful, aren't you?"

Harry folded his arms across his chest triumphantly. "Absolutely. Especially when it’s your neck in the offing, Malfoy."

~*~