Muggle Studies

And at last there came a morning
When old Slytherin departed
And though the fighting then died out
He left us quite downhearted.
And never since the founders four
Were whittled down to three
Have the Houses been united
As they once were meant to be.
And the Sorting Hat is here
And you all know the score:
I sort you into Houses
Because that is what I'm for
But this year I'll go further;
Listen closely to my song:
Though condemned I am to split you
Still I worry that it's wrong,
Though I must fulfill my duty
And must quarter every year
Still I wonder whether sorting
May not bring the end I fear . . .

The Sorting Hat Song, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Draco asked Pansy to be his second during dinner.

"I don’t want either Crabbe or Goyle, though I expect they’re assuming I’m going to ask them," Draco confided. “But, seriously, in a pinch, would either of them be able to find their wands through all that bulk? You're a decent dueler, Pans. How about it?"

Pansy considered this request.

"I'll do it if you really want me to,” she responded, “but why not have a really top-notch second…say, Rowan Clive? Snape's been working with him privately for well over two years now. He's a stronger choice. He’s quite formidable."

Draco leaned forward, conspiratorially. "Well, I thought about that, yes I did,” he said, his voice lowering to just above a whisper. “But, I concluded having a female second might actually be more strategically advantageous. I’d be willing to wager a million of my father's galleons that a Weasley wouldn’t duel half as strongly against a girl as they would against a guy. Chivalrous prats that they are . . . "

“The last time I checked it was the twentieth century not the twelfth. I don't think you should project your antiquated attitudes onto people you know nothing about.”

“Pansy, you wound me.”

“I doubt it.”

As Slytherin had consistently been paired with Gryffindor for classes since their first year, Pansy had been able to make some random observations of the Weasleys, and she felt she felt Draco’s assumption was, at best, overly generous. Although she had never once seen any of the Weasley brothers treat a female cruelly, she knew duels were something else entirely and brought with them different levels of propriety and strategy.

As far as kindness to girls went, Draco had been relentlessly horrid to her during the height of her crush on him -- just bloody awful. And, although she had always took him with a fairly large grain of salt, the two incidents on the train, both this afternoon and at the end of the last term, had unsettled her. The few times she unleashed her more private thoughts of him, and allowed them to wander unfettered through her mind, she often felt the subliminal brushing of an imaginary finger softly up her spine. Draco’s ferocity was firmly entrenched. And he was certainly not subtle about it.

Okay, not that she was either, she acknowledged silently.

However, at this particular juncture, she wanted nothing more than to reach across the heavy wooden table and shake him thoroughly for continuing to foster his weaknesses.

"Draco, look. I’d be less than honest if I said I understood your need for this ridiculous obsession," she said, fixing a cold gaze upon him. “It would really do you better to ignore the Weasleys all together -- before you land yourself in the nutter bin.”

Draco’s face was a visor of thinly disguised disgust. "Oh, honestly Pansy! Of all people, you should understand.”

“Hmm, but I don’t know -- that’s just it. Perhaps it’s because I choose not to waste my mental energy analysing things that are completely irrelevant to my existence,” she said, buttering her second roll. “Just as the Weasleys are irrelevant to yours. Pass me that pot of jam, would you?”

“A nasty, ginger lot is what they are -- all of them,” Draco slammed the jam crock forcefully onto the tabletop in front of Pansy’s plate; a blob of strawberry preserves flew to land on her finger. “Not to mention they're so dirt-poor they've been handing down the same set of school robes since the days of the founders . . . And I am not obsessed--"

"Oh. Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Why even bother with them at all then, if they're so dirty and gross that is?" She cleaned her finger with his napkin. Not that she was an expert on the Weasley brothers’ personal hygiene or anything, but the few times she had been paired with Ron for a class project he had merely smelled faintly of soap.

“Go ahead, Pansy. Just lick it off,” Draco smirked, motioning to her jam-covered pinky with his chin.

“I’m sure you’d like that,” she countered, unfazed. “Anyhow…if you weren't always starting in with the Weasel, he wouldn’t give you a second thought. And neither would Potter, for that matter."

His smirk wavered just the tiniest bit. She had hit a nerve.

Pansy remembered, of course, how four years past Harry Potter had refused to accept Draco’s handshake on the Hogwarts Express, in deference to Ron’s friendship.

"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," Harry had said coolly, turning away.

Draco had returned to his compartment with two burning spots of colour high on each cheek. He was quite accustomed to acknowledgement. "What an idiot," he had sneered, slamming himself back into his seat, arms crossed huffily over his scrawny chest, the toes of his clunky shoes barely scraping the floor. “Some hero. One thing's for sure -- he'll never make Slytherin."

And Draco had been right. Potter had gone to Gryffindor

Returning her focus to the matter at hand, Pansy gave in to her urge to placate him. She placed her hand over his, lightly intertwining her fingers within his. She hadn’t done this since they were quite young. He was without question the most difficult person Pansy had ever known -- but they had always been friends.

"You don’t need their approval,” Pansy said earnestly. She let her fingers slip from his. “It’d be better to just let it go.”

"You know, you’re really rather simplistic,” Draco said coldly, rising from his seat, “and it’s one of the things I least like about you. I really don't want to talk about the Weasleys -- or Potter -- anymore; it’s interfering with my dinner, and I’m not feeling particularly like digging through Granger’s bag for a digestive biscuit. Will you be my second or not?"

Her face warmed a bit under his biting insult, but she kept her composure. "Are you absolutely certain? After all, what am I, but an archaic, unversed creature of vapid femininity? You should be afraid my iron knickers might put a crimp in my reflexes,” she said flatly.

His familiar smirk returned. “I could swear that you just shared with me about your drawers. Iron knickers? What a superb mental image! I just may have to investigate for myself.”

“Oh, promises, promises,” Pansy teased, despite her better judgment, a grin teasing at her lips. “Be warned though, surly knave, you'll have to procure the key to my iron knickers from my father first, and he’ll be most shocked to hear of your lecherous intentions.”

“Better your father than mine,” he retorted, bending to whisper discretely into her ear. “Besides, Pansy, when the time comes for me to have a good look under your skirt, trust me, I won’t need a key.”

His breath was warm against her ear, and this whispered prediction flooded her senses completely. With her smile widening, she caught him deftly by the nape of his knotted tie. It was her turn to whisper. “And you can trust me, Draco, when I tell you the days of silly schoolgirl crushes are very. much. over.” Her lips brushed against his earlobe as she spoke. His smirk didn’t waver.

“Is that so?” he asked, nonchalantly. “Well, that's very interesting. So, are you going to partner me or not?”

“I said yes already, didn’t I?”

"Wonderful!” Draco said, breaking into a lascivious grin, “Now, let’s talk about the duel.”

“Very clever,” she retorted primly; however, she couldn’t help but appreciate his cheek. Slipping her wand from her robes, Pansy lightly tapped his hand. “Five points to Slytherin.”

“Excellent. I’ll be seeing you." And with that, Draco Malfoy swaggered from the Great Hall.

“Prat.”

Pansy and Blaise arrived at the appropriated meeting place a little before nine o’clock.

"Well, I'm glad you decided to show up finally!" Hermione barraged Pansy straight away, her arms crossed impatiently. "Seeing as you and I were the only prefects present when Malfoy accosted George and Fred. It’s imperative you be here.

"Relax, Granger!" Pansy had never met anyone so uptight. "I had to tuck the Firsties in -- you know, show them around and all that. Besides, Slytherin is further from here than Gryffindor Tower."

Hermione cocked her bushy head to the side. "I certainly hope you’ll be fair about the circumstances, what with Malfoy being in your house and all."

"Oh, don't worry. I'll tell Dumbledore exactly what happened," said Pansy, narrowing her eyes. "Seeing as you were busy with Vince's trousers during the scuffle, undoubtedly the details will be sketchy for your, and, like you say, it will be most important for at least one of us to provide an accurate representation of the events." Hermione at least had the decency to look chagrined.

Draco arrived next and took his place next to Pansy and Blaise, who were leaning casually against the stony wall of the corridor. Finally Millicent was accounted for, and Harry Potter approached the massive gargoyle statue.

"Sherbet Lemon," Harry Potter said imperiously. Nothing happened. “Er…Cockroach Clusters...Canary Creams…? Bloodipops…? Chocolate Frogs…? Rabbit Raisins…?” Still nothing. He was shifting nervously now.

“Oh bloody hell, Potter!” Draco swore impatiently, rolling his eyes. Emitting a low, guttural grinding, the statue slowly slid apart, revealing a circular staircase, which began revolving upward as the great wall opened.

“The password’s ‘Bloody Hell, Potter’?” Harry complained, unbelieving. “Since when?”

“Never mind, Scarhead.” Draco was immensely pleased with himself. “Let’s get this over with.”

One at a time, each student took a step and was quickly delivered to the elegant room outside Dumbledore's office. Pansy breathed in deeply, taking in the rich smells of fine leather, tobacco, Phoenix, inks and quills, and heady woods; she loved Dumbledore's office. Harry knocked on the heavy door leading directly into Dumbledore’s chambers, and then tentatively poked his head inside.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir? Do you have a moment?"

Professors McGonagall and Snape had been summoned, and now both stood authoritatively behind the Headmaster, who was seated behind his massive desk, listening intently. After the situation was fully laid out, Dumbledore took a moment of consideration. With his hands folded under his chin, the Headmaster stretched his two index fingers over his mouth to rest against the tip of his nose as he thought. Finally, he gave a resigned sigh.

"Indeed,” he said, wearily, “I dared to hope I might be free from vexing post-prandial visits until at least the second day of term. Surely that is not asking for much? I must confess I am very, very displeased with all of you who chose to participate in such a disgraceful exchange. I was very much hoping the events of last term would bring our true priorities to the forefront. Alas, I am afraid that is not yet to be."

“I couldn’t agree more, Albus,” McGonagall stated severely, flashing a glare at Snape.

Snape’s beetle-black eyes glittered ominously; however, he remained silent. Dumbledore held the students within his unyielding gaze, and, although Pansy had been only a witness to the altercation between Draco and George, the Headmaster’s consternation was more than enough to invoke her nerves.

"As you have noted,” Dumbledore continued, “there are no restrictions against a formal wizards’ duel at Hogwarts; however, there are strict guidelines, which must be adhered to, and their standards are exacting. A formal duel is never the place for silly tricks, or underhanded cheating, in any way." Dumbledore's gaze locked pointedly onto the Weasley twins until the two boys shifted in discomfort, before shifting to Draco. Clearly, his propensity for starting his charms and spells on the count of two, rather than three, was no secret.

"I swear," George said, his eyes landing on Draco, "it'll be completely straightforward."

Dumbledore nodded. "Have you yet chosen a Scylla Messorius?"

"Well," Hermione said, "I had suggested Mr. Filch…"

"Mr. Filch, Miss Granger?" The Headmaster was genuinely surprised.

"Yes. We concluded Filch might likely be the least biased of the staff, actually," Hermione explained, "seeing as he hates us all quite equally."

"I see,” Dumbledore responded. Pansy caught a hint of amusement in his eyes -- the first indication this evening of the jovial man she was used to. It relieved her. “Very well, then." With a slight effort, the old wizard rose and made his way to a great stone fireplace and took a ceramic bowl from the mantel. Reaching in, he withdrew a handful of sparkling black Floo Powder and flung it into the low flames licking within the hearth. The fire roared to life and Dumbledore spoke into the crackling green inferno.

"Argus? I’d like a word, if you please."

The caretaker's unmistakable face appeared in the fireplace, scowling. "What’s wrong now?" he glowered.

Ron leaned into Harry, trying to speak in low tones, but Pansy managed to catch his words anyway. "I'm surprised the old goat isn't busy stalking the halls!” he whispered to his friend. Potter nodded in agreement.

"Please join me in my office," Dumbledore requested. “I’d rather explain in person.”

"All right, then. I’ll be there." Filch's face disappeared.

Dumbledore turned back to his students. "While we are waiting for Mr. Filch, perhaps some of you wouldn't mind helping me set up my Refugio bowls? I would, of course, like an opportunity to examine the events in question for myself.”

“Accio Table!” With a nimble flick of his wand, Dumbledore summoned a long wooden table from an adjacent storeroom and settled it in front of the fireplace, barely missing Draco’s head in the process. Next, he made his way over to a towering mahogany wardrobe on the opposite side of his office. Drawing the giant doors open, he gestured for Pansy and Hermione to lend a hand.

"Miss Granger, Miss Parkinson. Please be so kind. Miss Granger, after Miss Parkinson cleans each Refugio, if you would arrange it carefully on the table. There should be four or five inches between them. Miss Parkinson, if you would take this and ensure the bowls are clean…"

Dumbledore proffered his hand and Pansy took a soft, fawn-coloured chamois from the Headmaster; he smiled kindly at her. "I'm proud to say, Miss Parkinson, I enchanted this very cloth with an cleaning charm of my own creation. Nary a speck of dirt or lint can avoid this special spell. Fawkes, unfortunately, is not the stickler for cleanliness I would have him be,” he said, finishing the last part with a conspiratorial wink.

She couldn’t help but giggle. "Very clever, Professor," she said, meeting the headmaster’s eyes, "I expect these might be useful in the Slytherin dungeons actually. It seems like all the dust in Hogwarts makes its way down to us. Perhaps you could share your spell?"

"I shall do even better. I will have enough cloths ready for your house by the morning. Severus, please ensure you stop by my office in the morning to pick them up. I'm sure you will distribute them appropriately?"

Snape hesitated, housework not being his particular forte. Pansy indulged in a brief image of her tetchy head of house, his stringy black hair secured with a headscarf atop his scowling mug, yielding a bristly lavatory brush in lieu of his wand.

"I will pick them up tomorrow morning, if you require. Perhaps it would be easier to have them sent directly to the house elves, though?" Snape inquired, prompting Hermione to roll her eyes.

"Yes, yes, Severus,” Dumbledore said as he set about unwrapping his collection of Refugiae from their protective flannel sleeves, “I am well aware of your aversion to domestic labor; however, I myself have always found it useful to keep a few basic supplies on hand for the occasional unforeseen need. Our elves are very busy as it is. I do not like to bother them with every little chore. I’ll prepare enough for each dormitory to have their own set of cloths."

"Thank you, Professor," Pansy said.

"It is my pleasure to assist Slytherin House in their endeavor to remain dust-free, Miss Parkinson," Dumbledore said, handing her two bowls.

She carefully ferried the emerald-coloured bowls to the table. As she worked, polishing, she couldn’t help but notice the Refugiae were truly very lovely vessels, each having been carved of Brazilian agate. The tiny flagons glowed warmly under her fingers as she carefully worked the chamois over and through each one. One by one, she brought each completed bowl to Hermione, who carefully arranged them along the heavy table.

Pansy could tell Draco’s nerves were starting to wear when he began pacing the stone floor. "Where's Filch?” he demanded, “He ought to be here by now! How long does it take a person to Floo anyway?"

"Mr. Filch prefers to walk the castle, Mr. Malfoy, rather than use Floo Powder," Dumbledore replied evenly as Potter exchanged furtive glances with Weasley and Granger. The three of them broke into secretive grins; Dumbledore gave the trio a pointed look, but said nothing.

Despite Dumbledore's worries, not a speck of dirt had come from any of the Refugiae. Pansy admitted to herself she wasn't sure of their exact purpose. She whispered to the other girl as Dumbledore returned to his imposing wardrobe and, again, began rummaging through its shelves.

“Granger -- and, please, don't raise your hand -- what are these for exactly?" She gestured at the Refugiae.

“Oh, nice. And I should tell you after that friendly crack?” Hermione retorted.

“Sorry. You make it so hard to resist.”

"Oh stuff it, Parkinson,” Hermione snorted, tossing her bushy hair. She continued, though, as Pansy knew she would. “Refugiae, or 'memory bowls,' are small containers used for temporary storage of a person's memory. In theory they’re very similar to Pensieves, but they’re nowhere near as powerful. They can only hold a fraction the volume of a regular Pensieve. As well, Refugiae bowls lose the memories they hold after only six or seven hours. If I recall correctly, the first Refugiae were thought to be an ancient Greek creation, dating from . . . "

Pansy shushed the other girl with an impatient wave of her hand. "All right! I get it. But, tell me, why are we using them here tonight?" she asked.

"Well, I think—and I'm not totally certain, mind you-- Dumbledore wants to use them to 'see' what happened today on the train. He mentioned wanting to view what happened for himself . . . Oh!" Hermione again remembered her roll in the escapade. Without thinking, she grabbed Pansy's wrist.

"Ow! Let go, Granger!" Pansy recoiled.

"Dumbledore will see me clinging to…to Crabbe! Me, a prefect! What if I'll be asked to step down?" Hermione was beside herself.

"I'm sure it will all work out in the end," Pansy said, extricating herself from Hermione’s grasp, "In the grand scheme of things, your hanging from Crabbe's trousers will not likely be the foremost issue on the Headmaster’s mind. It’s really Draco who needs to worry about Dumbledore, not you."

“Well, I hope the sodding git gets what’s coming to him -- and publicly, to boot!" Hermione returned to fussing over the Refugiae, making unnecessary adjustments in their placement. "Although I’m sure you’re not interested in my feelings about your little boyfriend, now, are you . . . ?"

“We're not on the pull, Granger,” Pansy snapped. “We're friends. Are you trying to start something with me? Because you don’t even know me, and you certainly don’t know Draco. Not at all.”

In her periphery Pansy could see Professor Snape hesitatingly make a move, as if to intervene. This wasn’t the Potions dungeon, after all, and he surely wouldn’t be able to explain deliberately ignoring an altercation between students right under Dumbledore’s nose. Surprisingly, Professor McGonagall discretely stopped him from coming forth with a subtle shake of her head.

Hermione didn’t flinch. “Oh please. Everyone knows about you two -- what with him drooling all over himself and staring at you all the time. Honestly, you all should chip in and buy him a bib before he develops a tatty rash on his chin. Besides, I think I know enough about you both to know your stupid, elitist, pureblood loyalties come way before your common sense,” she said hotly.

“I don't know what you're talking about," Pansy snorted. “But that's really rather rich. I’ll have you know, Granger, my feelings -- which you actually know nothing about, despite your assumptions -- are not so cut and dried as you might think. You're no better! I know what you and your friends have to say about us Slytherins. Calling us snooty and evil,” Pansy set the last Refugio upon the table a bit too roughly in her anger. Hermione quickly put out her hand to steady the agate bowl.

“Enlighten me, then," Hermione responded. Pansy was surprised.

“Maybe some other time," she said, still irritated. “Not right now. Look, I really wouldn’t have anyone be on the receiving end of what Draco said to George and Ron on the train. It was tasteless.” She stared at Hermione defiantly. "Even I have standards."

“So, why are you backing him up, then?” Hermione demanded, her anger piquing once again.

“For exactly the same reasons you’d back Potter or Weasley carte blanche. Draco and I go back a long way.”

Hermione’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “How is it we’ve been classmates for four years, yet all I know about you is your name and your house?”

As the words tumbled from her lips, Hermione immediately wished them back. Flushing, she braced herself for the verbal onslaught she believed would be forthcoming.

But Pansy merely shrugged, too tired from the day's events to get angry. "Don’t ask me. Maybe you Gryffindors are judgmental in your own right. It's not like you've ever bothered to ask? All right, why are you cringing at me like you’re about to get your teeth hexed again?”

“That’s really not funny,” Hermione said, bristling at the memory of the beaver teeth incident the previous year, “I…I was waiting for you to call me a Mudblood, I guess,” she finished briskly. She was embarrassed to say the word, especially in reference to herself. Pansy smirked.

“When have I ever called you a Mudblood, Granger?”

Hermione could say nothing. "I just assumed--"

"Yes. You do that a lot. Well, personally, I think you’re just as big a snob as you think I am.”

"Well done, girls, well done," Dumbledore returned from his wardrobe and inspected the setup. Lifting a stone carafe he had brought with him, into each tiny bowl he carefully poured a beautifully metallic liquid, which began to swirl as it rose toward each rim. He motioned everyone forward and there was a faint rustling of cloaks as the group gathered around. "One at a time, I will place your individual memories of the incident in question into your Refugio. You will not feel any pain. Quite the contrary, it is usually a peaceful, pleasant sensation. Please focus on your memory as clearly as you can, so I may have representation of all the points of view of those involved. Ron, I'll start with you."

Dumbledore placed his wand to Ron's temple; the boy’s eyes widened. “Just relax, Mr. Weasley.” Ron took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Abluo,” he incanted softly.

A thin silvery wisp began snaking from the boy’s head. Dumbledore directed it gently with his wand.

"I was right," Hermione whispered to Pansy.

It was all very fascinating, she thought.

"Concentrate now . . . very good!" Dumbledore's wand hand was aloft, the other cupping under the shimmering memory, which he had extracted from Ron’s head. His hands steady, Dumbledore approached the table and gently lowered the memory into one of the waiting Refugio bowls. The liquid swirled at the touch of a memory until the ghostly wisp was fully absorbed. When its contents had finally calmed the Refugio suddenly bloomed with vibrant colour. Dumbledore tapped the Refugio’s rim lightly with his wand and slowly the name Ronald Weasley penned itself across the center of the bowl in a glowing cerulean script. Working with quiet efficiently, he soon had all the Refugiae filled and ready.

Not sure of what next to expect, Pansy couldn’t have been more amazed when the Headmaster dipped his nose right into the liquid core of Ron’s Refugio and disappeared into its silver contents. A vortex of colour again appeared. The group crowded in even further, straining, trying for a glimpse of the old wizard; however, all they could see was murky liquid, which had lost its brief colouring shortly after Dumbledore disappeared inside. Eventually the group disbursed and found different places throughout the office to wait more comfortably. A quarter of an hour passed before Dumbledore returned. Upon doing so he didn’t speak, but rather went straight to George's bowl and, once again, tumbled forth.

While Dumbledore commenced with his duties, Professors Snape and McGonagall spoke softly between themselves of schedules and syllabuses at the Headmaster’s desk, as their students finally began to mill about.

“Come on, Pansy. I have a couple of crackers from dinner,” Blaise said, turning out her pockets. “Shall we go chat to Fawkes?”

Fawkes’ astonishing scarlet and gold plumes rose happily as the girls approached him, and he excitedly moved back and forth along his golden perch several times before accepting a cracker from Blaise. Pansy stroked his slick wing gently and thought surely there could be no creature the world over more beautiful than a Phoenix.

“By the way,” Blaise said slyly, “I heard what Draco said to you at dinner, right before he left.”

“Shame on you! I was completely whispering, you big snoop . . .”

“Are you so sure it’s just a schoolgirl crush?” Blaise loved a good romance, imaginary or not. “I will say it was a most fabulous comeback, my dear-- very good form!"

“Thank you, Blaise. I’m glad you approve. And, yes, I’m…fairly sure.”

“Well, that's not very definitive, is it?" Blaise lowered her voice. “He right fancies you, you know.”

Pansy hesitated, her fingers stilling on Fawkes's wing. "You're wrong."

"No," Blaise said, quietly, "I'm not. Draco fancies you, Pansy."

Pansy’s heart contracted; she shook her head and reflexively scratched Fawkes just under his beak. The bird emitted a lovely, low warble. Looking up, she spotted Harry Potter watching her and Blaise closely as they fussed over Dumbledore’s beautiful pet. He looks…why he actually looks jealous! Unable to resist, Pansy stuck out her tongue at Potter and deliberately stroked Fawkes’ neck even more lovingly. The bird’s feathers fluffed and fell with pleasure. Potter averted his gaze when it became clear Fawkes’s loyalty was limited in the face of doting females with crackers and back-scratches to spare.

“No, Blaise,” she said, returning her attention to the matter of Draco, “No. He doesn’t. He’s spent the last two years perfecting the art of embarrassing the bloody hell out of me! And he was absolutely abominable at the Yule Ball. Honestly, it was the last straw. I still can’t get over how hideous it was--”

“Exactly!” Blaise cut her off. “It doesn’t get much clearer than that. It’s a sign a boy really likes a girl.”

“By abandoning her at her first formal occasion?” Pansy asked incredulously, “Well, great. That’s just fabulous.” She stole a peek at Draco; he met her gaze straight on. Surely Blaise isn’t right. . . She returned her attention to Fawkes, sighing heavily. “I just don’t know, Blaise. I’m not sure I’m really up for. . .him. I mean, what he said today on the Hogwarts Express was slightly over the top, don’t you agree? Even for him. It was. . .kind of embarrassing, even.” Pansy had never thought of Draco as embarrassing before. “Well, to Slytherin, anyway. Honestly, Blaise, I. . .well, I suppose I’m feeling quite confused.”

Blaise patted her best friend’s hand. “I understand. Sometimes I feel the same way. Not about Draco, of course,” she added hastily, “As you know, he’s a bit too pointy-faced for my taste. I mean about boys in general.”

Fawkes rubbed Pansy’s fingers affectionately with his lustrous golden beak and the girls fell silent. After a few minutes Pansy spoke again.

“I think he might be a bit dangerous.”

“Oh, yes. Well, that can be intriguing.”

“No, Blaise. Not like that,” Pansy said, her brows furrowing. She stroked Fawkes’s feathers one last time. Blaise considered this.

“I expect I see what you’re saying,” she said thoughtfully. “Pansy, he’s always been this way. I rather think you might be good for him. You’re normal. And you’re tough, too. In fact, your parents really should have called you ‘Thistle’. Yes, that’s fitting I think. You know -- looks soft to the touch, but watch your fingers!”

Quickly, Pansy poked Blaise playfully in the ribs and her friend doubled over, giggling. “There you go -- how’s that! Thistle? How silly!”

“And might I add that you have an excellent sense of humour,” Blaise laughed, grabbing Pansy’s hands to avoid another tickling.

Harry Potter was busy polishing his glasses with the hem of his cloak. Fumbling, he lost his grip and they bounced to the floor, clattering across the stones to land just under the Refugiae table. As he retrieved them and made to put them back on, Dumbledore's head -- and only his head -- suddenly appeared from Millicent's bowl, at perfect eye level with the young man kneeling before the table.

"GAH!" Potter tumbled backward in surprise, his glasses again coming to rest on the floor. Professor McGonagall startled, bringing a hand to her chest in surprise and Snape gave the Headmaster a cool nod of the head, inquiring, “All is well, Headmaster?”

"I do apologize Harry," Dumbledore said. “Thank you, Severus, yes. All is well.” Swiveling his head around in the bowl, Dumbledore finally located Millicent. "Ah, there you are Miss Bulstrode. Might I say how very much I enjoyed the button you bestowed upon Mr. Malfoy -- a most clever charm, indeed. The artist in you is apparent, and you have undoubtedly been diligent with your Charms studies."

"Well, thank you, Professor!" Millicent was positively delighted.

With a twinkling nod, Dumbledore again disappeared into the depths of Millicent Bulstrode’s memories with a tiny *pop*, but it wasn't long until Dumbledore had finished. When done, the Headmaster returned to his desk and surveyed the small group.

"I am not quite sure where to begin,” he stated quietly. “I am particularly troubled by your vitriol, Mr. Malfoy. You are but a youth, and a youth in most troubling times at that. Do be apprised that your position as prefect is a privilege. I beg you to justify the assignment.”

Draco raised his chin slightly, but said nothing in deference.

“I would like to emphasize to all here how imperative it will be for us to put our differences aside if we are to co-exist peacefully. There couldn’t be a worse time to aggravate long-standing feuds, or to cling to rivalries whose origins have long been lost and forgotten. It is time for you, Mr. Malfoy, and all of you Weasleys, to put your differences aside. It is not my usual practice to force an unwanted truce upon unwilling parties,” the Headmaster’s gaze flickered briefly to Professor Snape, who shifted. “However, I cannot stress enough to all of you just how precarious our current situation is. Voldemort is back and he is rising. And he needs little more than weakness, anger and despair to expedite his infiltration. He exploits people through their vulnerabilities. Thus, we must collectively reject the choices and behaviours which ultimately serve only to make us weak.” Dumbledore’s gaze lingered pointedly on Draco, and Pansy watched as Draco held the headmaster's eyes, unflinching.

A heavy knock came at the door and Argus Filch stalked into Dumbledore's office.

"Sorry I was delayed. It was Peeves,” the old man grumbled, giving no acknowledgement to the students. “This time he shut Professor Lupin's Boggart into the Ravenclaw portrait hole. There they were, the whole lot of them Ravenclaws, piled on top one another in the corridor . . . screaminglike babies. Don't know why the dumb thing didn't just turn its bloody self around and find a nice couch to hide under in the common room. But no -- there the brainless thing was, just bangin’ itself stupidly against the portrait door--"

“I’ve no doubt Peeves continues to keep you spry, Argus," Dumbledore interjected calmly, "however, I’m afraid I've a serious matter at hand. A challenge has been set forth -- a wizards' duel."

"A duel? But it’s the first day of term." Filch took in those present, his malevolent gaze lingering, respectively, on Malfoy, the Weasley brothers, and Harry Potter. "Might’a known who’d be at the crux of it.” Mrs. Norris wound languidly through Filch’s legs, before she finally settled and fixed her enormous eyes upon Harry and Ron. Filch turned back to Dumbledore. “How about a nice, long detention instead? I have yet to muck the owlery. It'll be nice and ripe by now . . . "

"As truly enticing as that sounds, even I cannot supercede a duelling challenge," Dumbledore rose from his desk and came around his desk. "The challengers are asking for you to be their Scylla Messorius."

"What?" Filch’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Now wait just a bleedin’ minute! What's really going on here . . . ?"

Dumbledore chose his words carefully. "The contenders feel you would be the least likely of our staff to be biased in the matter, thereby safest to hold the Scyllae safely until the duel has been completed."

"We figure you hate us all equally!" Fred Weasley piped up.

Filch pursed his thin lips. "Well, you aren't too far off the mark there,” the caretaker conceded. “A thorn in my side, you are -- the lot of you."

"How do you feel about this proposed task, Argus?" Dumbledore persisted patiently.

"There's nothing in my contract about meddling about in student affairs, Dumbledore."

Both Harry Potter and Ron snorted. “I thought that was his job…” Ron whispered to Harry.

“That’s enough out of you, boy, or I’ll have you in the owlery, no matter!” Filch’s hearing was as acute as ever. Pansy was beginning to wonder if the old man was going to refuse. Dumbledore tried again.

"You are correct, and I will respect your decision; however, I will say it would behoove me greatly if you would grant this request."

Filch's red-rimmed, watery eyes surveyed the scene a final time.

"Fine," he said, after a moment, “but if I come to find this is some kind of plot--”

"I really am most appreciative. Thank you, Argus," Dumbledore said. Turning, he faced the group of students. "You will prepare your Scyllae tonight; after tomorrow's breakfast I shall expect Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley in my office. I will approve each Scylla as an acceptable consequence. I believe it goes without saying that the Scyllae may never involve Unforgivable curses. Argus, I’ll need you also to be here, as well as the second duelers. I do not wish to prolong this matter, as classes begin in two days time, so the duel will be held tomorrow afternoon and I’m setting the time for three o’clock. I believe the Quidditch pitch would be the best location, as it offers adequate room. Minerva, Severus -- I expect you both should be here in the morning as well, and, in the meantime, I’d like for you both to review the Refugiae before they purge the information they hold."

Snape and McGonagall did as Dumbledore instructed, moving toward the Refugiae in a silent rustle of robes.

"I'll be returning to my duties, then." Filch left the office, Mrs. Norris close behind.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, you may go," Dumbledore herded his students toward his office foyer. “It’s late and I’m sure you all will be needing your rest for tomorrow’s event. Mr. Malfoy, please wait. I’d like to speak with you further."

Draco's hand had almost reached the door's heavy brass handle when the Headmaster spoke; reluctantly, he let it drop and skulked sullenly toward the set of sturdy, high-backed chairs facing Dumbledore's desk.

“Uh-oh!” Blaise whispered to Pansy as they exited, “Tsk, tsk. Bad Draco…” As the massive oak doors closed behind them, Pansy linked arms with Blaise and Millicent. Tomorrow should be most interesting."

"Very interesting!" Millicent agreed, nodding.

When they entered the Slytherin common room, the three girls were besieged by their housemates and were forced to regale the details of their meeting with Dumbledore. Finally able to fend off the curious, Pansy, Blaise, and Millicent managed to escape to their dormitory.

“God!” Blaise moaned, leaning against the now-shut door. Arms outstretched, Pansy flopped onto her bed and reveled in the cozy softness of her feather duvet, as it puffed lightly around her body. It was good to be back.

Millicent busied herself arranging her wardrobe. She liked things just so. She was finally growing into her bulky frame and strong jaw. A few inches in height over the past year had given her a leaner look, although the girl would never sylph-like. Now fifteen, Millicent’s cheekbones were beginning to emerge from her round face, and her clefted chin seemed more proportional in relation to her other features.

A knock came at the door. “Head of House,” a deep voice intoned.

Groaning, Blaise cracked it ever so slightly and peered into the darkened hall. Professor Snape stood outside, his sharp features oddly illuminated by the flickering candlelight emanating from the numerous wall sconces which lined the Slytherin dormitory corridors.

“Good evening, Miss Zabini. Undoubtedly you all are quite tired; however, I must briefly speak with Miss Parkinson about tomorrow’s duel and the Scyllae.”

The potions master wore his usual flowing black robes and he looked positively desmodian, owning to the peculiar way he folded his arms into his garments. Pansy sighed and reluctantly rolled herself from the comfort of her bed. Snape was correct -- she was absolutely exhausted. However, obligingly, she ducked into the corridor and quietly followed her head of house to the common room, which still held a few students. Snape motioned for Pansy to sit at one of the round marble tables usually reserved for chess or cards, and took the seat opposite her. He considered her, his black eyes curious.

“You are familiar with the Scylla Messorius, Miss Parkinson?” he asked.

“We talked about it a few times at the duelling club, of course, but, I’ve not had any direct experience with it yet. I’m familiar with the theory.”

“Tell me what you know.”

Pansy closed her eyes and searched her spent mind. “Sir, if I recall correctly, I believe it means ‘to be punished’…or something along those lines.”

“Scylla Messorius, Miss Parkinson, translates, roughly, to ‘he who reaps the Punishment’.”

“Oh, well, that’s very quaint isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Snape clipped. “In times long past, a Punisher, or Reaper, would be summoned to stand watch over a wizards’ duel, until the dominant wizard was revealed. Some say the Reaper came from the Underworld -- What the Muggles call Hell, if you will. When the winning dueler triumphed, the Messorius would call the duel and then reap the final punishment, which was death in those times. Avada Kedavra has never been a forgivable curse, Miss Parkinson, even in the most unsophisticated of times. The Messorius was a being of the very darkest of magic. Its exact origins are not fully known, but evidence points to the Messoriae as early predecessors of our modern-day Dementors.”

“Did they use Avada Kedavra then, or the kiss?” Pansy asked.

“Either. They had both at their disposal.” Snape languidly extended one arm to rest upon the table as he spoke, and his pale fingers lightly traced the rich, veined pattern of the marble table top. Pansy leaned toward him, shivering slightly from the thought of prehistoric Dementors and their mouldering kisses.

“So, Mr. Filch-- he’s our Messorius. Will he be doling out some sort of punishment?”

“As much as he would undoubtedly savour the opportunity, no,” Snape responded dryly. “Times have changed. Today Messorius is only a moniker used for the individual chosen to hold the Scyllae for protection. As you know, Mr. Malfoy will have to submit three consequences designed specifically for George -- three Scyllae that is. Conversely, Mr. Weasley will also design three consequences for Mr. Malfoy. Tomorrow, Professor Dumbledore will review each submission and will approve one each for both Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Weasley. The Scyllae are then bound, magically, to their intended recipients. The duelers, in turn, are bound to their Scylla both magically and by honour. It is not something to be taken lightly.”

“Do the duellers usually know what their consequence is before the duel commences?” Pansy asked.

“No.”

“And what about me? The seconds, I mean . . .”

“Should a second actively participate in a duel at any point, they, too, are bound by honour to accept the consequence of the Scyllae along with the primary dueler. If they are not needed during the course of the duel, they are relieved of their obligation when the duel ends, regardless of the victor.”

"So if Draco loses the duel. . . ?"

"If you participate in the duel, even for a split second, you too will be bound by the Scyllae Messorium spell."

Pansy contemplated this.

Professor Snape stood, pushing his chair back as he rose to leave. “I shall be available tomorrow morning should you have further questions. Good luck, then, Miss Parkinson. I expect you to do well.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

The dungeon wall dissolved with a shimmering ripple; Draco entered the common room without a word to either Snape or Pansy, the wall sealing shut behind him. Storming to the nearest wing-back, he folded himself into the creaking leather. If he slouched any lower, he would likely have oozed to the floor, in a grand, snaking gesture of petulance. Snape met Pansy's eyes and motioned slightly toward Draco with his head; Pansy nodded and politely excused herself to where he was seated in front of the massive Slytherin fireplace. His left leg bounced up and down angrily as he scowled fiercely into the crackling fire.

“Well?” Pansy asked after a moment of silence.

“Well, what?”

“Well, what did Dumbledore say?” she persisted. Blaise and Millicent, who had apparently been wondering what she and Snape were discussing, had come down from the dormitory, and were now standing behind her.

“A bunch of bloody crap is what he said, as usual. Not only that --" Draco's lip curled. " -- but he made me tickle his silly bird.”

“Don’t insult Fawkes!” Blaise was affronted. “We happen to adore him.”

“That’s because you’re all girls, and girls love things like…giant, coloured birds, and…doggies with little matching clothes and hairstyles,” he sniffed.

“Draco, you seriously need a pet of your own-- something to love unconditionally. Something without scales,” Blaise retorted.

“I thought that’s what you three were for,” Draco said scathingly. “To throw bits of food at and keep in a box for my amusement.”

Blaise rolled her eyes.

“Well,” Pansy said, irritated, “Dumbledore must have gotten to you, and good, judging from the way you’re behaving.

“You act like that’s a good thing,” he said, finally looking up at her, a wounded expression twisting at his features.

“Maybe it is,” Blaise suggested. “I myself think you might benefit from one of those Muggle Healers Mother’s always going on about after she visits with my great-uncle, Guido. Shrinks, I believe they’re called--”

“How dare you even suggest such a thing!” Draco fumed. Pansy knew he didn’t have the slightest idea what Blaise was going on about; however, he clearly felt maligned. “I’m not overweight and even if I did need to…to ‘shrink,’ or whatever it is you called it, I’m sure Snape has a potion--”

“No, no, no,” Blaise sighed, exasperated. “Not ‘shrink’ in that sense -- they help with anger and--"

"I am not angry, you nagging, relentless bint!"

"Look, Draco, forget the shrink, okay? It’s not important. But the thing on the train today -- now that was really over the top. Even for you.”

“Et tu, Brute?" Draco quipped with a grumble. "Thanks ever so much, Zabini.”

“That’s from a Muggle story, by the way. Did you know? Shakespeare,” Millicent interjected cunningly, slightly amused.

Draco rolled his eyes, disgusted. “I’m sure you three believe you have just cause for pestering me, but I’m really very tired. The day-to-day upkeep of my evil persona is very taxing, you know.”

“Well, too bad," Blaise said, her voice lowering threateningly. "We’ve decided the time has come to remind you that you aren’t the only member of this house. And that Slytherin House is not your personal microcosmic to manipulate or bat about at your whim.”

Her words bit, and he rose from his chair, glowering angrily at the three girls clustered around him. "You can just sod the hell off,” he spat. “All of you.” Draco crossed the Slytherin common room with a few angry strides, and then pounded fiercely up the stairs leading to the boys’ dormitories. Seconds later they heard the distant slam of a door.

The three girls looked at one another. Millicent gave Pansy a pitying glance and shrugged.

“Lucky you,” she said.

Meanwhile, the Gryffindor common room hummed pleasantly with activity. George, Ron and Fred Weasley were hunched over a gaming table not unlike the one Pansy and Professor Snape had just been occupying down in the castle’s recesses. Bits of parchment covered the table’s round top and Ron’s head was buried in his arms, covering bits and pieces covered with George’s scrawling script. George scribbled notes on his parchment while Fred thumbed through his Charms text, taking notes regarding particularly useful spells for tomorrow’s big event. Sighing deeply, Ron finally raised his head.

“All right, that’s two Scyllae done. Go on then, George, finish the third -- it's almost time for Hermione and I to do bedcheck.”

“Ah, yes, oh Great and Noble Prefect Ronniekins," George teased with a flick of his eyebrows, "I wouldn't want something as insignificant as a formal wizards' duel to interfere with your opportunity to take inventory of the ickle firsties' pyjama patterns." Ron threw his brother a scathing look. George glanced down at his two completed Scyllae. "Too bad I can’t just offer this one,” he mused, fingering an especially treasured proposal, “because I just know this is it. The one. What if Dumbledore doesn’t pick it?”

Harry spoke up from the table where he was playing a game of chess with Ginny. “He’ll pick the right one. I’ve no doubt.” Harry deliberated another moment before making his move. “Checkmate.”

“Damn!”