Muggle Studies

Soaks my skin - through to the bone
Pain is nothing that a downpour won't erase
Rain - you can't hold on to it
A treasure you cannot frame
Rain - somehow I'm drawn to it
I feel engaged, one and the same
When Heaven's dressing beads off my face
The pain is nothing that a downpour won't erase

Flowers Become Screens by Delerium, featuring Kristy Thirsk of The Rose Chronicles.

--

Pansy awoke abruptly from a dead sleep knowing instantly that she wasn't alone. Keeping her eyes closed she tried to assess the situation -- she had never been particularly keen on surprises. She could hear Millicent's even breathing from the next bed and across the way Blaise shifted in her sleep, her bedsprings creaking slightly.

"Pansy . . . " a voice whispered. A male voice.

Grudgingly, she hoisted her eyelids to half-mast.

Draco's face was inches from her own. Slowly, she let her eyes close and she rolled over. Snuggling farther down into her covers she waited for sleep to overtake her again even as she sensed him rounding her bed.

"I know you're awake," came his cool whisper, again.

"Oh, God," she whinged, exasperated, from beneath her covers. "Go away!" She was instantly at full alert, however, when she felt him moving onto her bed, and then found herself pressed deeply into the mattress by the force his body on hers. He's lying on top of me! Shocked, she jerked the top of her covers down. He wore perhaps the most arrogantly triumphant smirk she'd ever seen on him -- and that was saying something. "Even for you, this is a rather unexpected level of smarminess," she said icily.

"Well, good morning to you, too," he drawled. "Sleep well?" He cocked his head at her and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" she hissed, trying to deduce his motives, not quite ready to sound the alarm to Blaise and Millicent. "Get off of me right now."

She attempted to squirm free, but Draco had his full weight bearing on her, thus had her at a disadvantage. Leaning in fully, he planted his forearms on either side of her face and leaned in to her. Her eyes widened fearfully. Nose-to-nose, his grey eyes studied her brown ones, and a lock of his pale hair he had tucked behind his ear came loose and fell forward to tickle her cheek.

Merlin on a cracker, she thought. Thank God for the quilts. She absolutely refused to consider what she might have felt pressed against her, had her thick layer of duvets not been between them. She was sure the infinite mortification would have been unbearable. Deftly, Draco changed positions. Sitting squarely on her pelvis, his knees on either side of her hips, he again crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her lazily.

I need the loo . . . The rather embarrassing thought, well, trickled uninvited through Pansy's mind. She banished it, forcing the mantra I will not think about bodily functions to march through her mind as she attempted to find a safe place to fix her gaze. Neutral, she thought, look somewhere neutral-- like his pyjama trousers. Okay, no, not -there-. She had discovered his bodily functions were . . . not currently functioning, seeing as his pyjamas remained baggy in the crotch. Actually, she did not want to contemplate Draco's bodily functions -- any of them -- at all. She berated herself inwardly for her childish reaction. Oh, get a hold of yourself, you silly bint! It's just Draco . . . A surge of anger at his antics finally overtook her embarrassment.

"Fine. Good morning, Draco," she said, quite sweetly, and then jerked her body upward with all the strength she could muster. He was caught off guard and she easily pitched him forward and evicted him from her bed with several forceful kicks and a sound smack to the head.

"Ooof!" His foot caught in the corner of her duvet, pulling it as he hit the floor. "Bloody hell!"

He struggled to stand and at the same time extricate his entangled foot. Contorted by his efforts, he wobbled unstably, and his right hand grabbed at one of the bedposts. It was a losing battle-- even for a Seeker -- and he again met the floor with a loud crash, managing to take half of the heavy green bed curtains from the canopy with a forceful tear.

"Pansy . . . ?" Blaise stirred, her voice drifting sleepily across the room, "What's that noise?"

"I just had a bit of a bad dream." She saw him attempting to grasp the mattress again in an effort to get up; she pinched the top of his hand as forcefully as she could.

"Ow! Shit!"

"I thought I heard something break . . . " Blaise mumbled from her bed.

"No, it was . . . just my silly dream, Blaise. No worries," she spoke hurriedly and concentrated on keeping Draco out of her bed. "Er . . . okay, then-- nighty-night! Back to sleep!"

"Mmm . . . " Finally Blaise's breathing resumed the deep and even pattern indicative of sleep.

Draco managed to haul himself up. As he warily drew his head over the top of Pansy's mattress he was greeted by the cool poke of her wand trained between his eyes. As this was now the second time in just twenty-four hours he had found himself staring down a wand, he really had to admit things were not going especially well at all. Particularly seeing as it was only his first official day back at Hogwarts.

"What exactly do you think you're playing at?" Pansy inquired steadily, seething.

A fleeting look of surprise crossed his face, but was quickly replaced by his usual haughty façade.

"What? Can't a friend drop by to say good morning?" he retorted, cocking his head at her, his eyes narrowing sulkily.

Oh, for the love of Aberforth's goat. Pansy closed her eyes for a moment, trying to somehow organise the utter inanity of the situation, then shook her head. "You were just 'dropping by'? Are you right barking mad?!"

Holding her wand steady to his forehead, Pansy protectively gathered what bedcovers she could around herself using her free hand. A deep flush had worked its way up from her décolleté, and her face and neck burned with self-conscious embarrassment. She could just imagine the unfortunate, splotchy mess she must look.

"You can say 'good morning' to me at breakfast -- or in the common room. Or when we're on our way up to the Great Hall. Or in the corridors between classes. You can send me a bloody 'good morning owl' for all I care. You can say good morning to me anytime, anywhere, but in my bed -- or anywhere in my bedchamber for that matter. Need I remind you we're both prefects?"

"Well, you don't need to get angry about it," he retorted, his eyes briefly crossing as he glanced down the length of her wand. "I really didn't want to say good morning to you in any of those other places -- if I had wanted to, Pansy, I would have. What I wanted was to say good morning to you right here, right now, just like I just did. Now, do you think perhaps you could put that down?"

He was offended. God, the gall! She said nothing for several moments, but then slowly lowered her wand. His face relaxed and a flash of-- was it hope? -- flickered in his eyes for a split second, and Pansy felt the cold flash of sudden realisation as a thousand tiny pieces of information fell together to finally complete the puzzle.

He fancies me.

It wasn't as she herself wasn't well acquainted with discomfited overtures from her own crush on him. She studied the boy now kneeling at the side of her bed incredulously, as if this were their first meeting-- this boy . . . who had so mercilessly wrung her heart dry for the past two and a half years. Here he was.

He really -fancies- me.

Not in a million years would she have imagined the mere prospect of Draco Malfoy reciprocating her romantic feelings -- forcibly dormant now for the past six months -- might in some ways be just as painful to her as her unrequited crush had been. Some unbridled emotion -- well, fear actually -- snaked reflexively through her mind before coiling protectively in her gut. A burning feeling spread through her throat and she was forced to swallow several times to temper the unexpected reaction. I won't cry. I will -not- cry in front of him. No. Truth told, her inner Slytherin was putting on quite the fuss. He should have to wait, the snake hissed to her cunningly. He deserves to be fully requited. However, the girlish part of her that was just plain Pansy simply wanted to know his affection.

Her heart wrenched. "Why are you doing this?" she blurted angrily.

"Because." His expression was unreadable.

"Because?" she parroted, incredulous. "Because? Oh, that's rich. Look, I'm not in the mood for your stupid head games, Draco. So, get out."

"What?" Draco hadn't expected this.

"I said get out. Like I told you yesterday, the days of silly schoolgirl crushes are over. I don't know what you're up to, but I'm not playing. I'm not that stupid. Find someone else."

"Pansy," Draco felt a rising surge of panic licking at his insides, "I'm not playing with you." His customary smirk faded, leaving him quite unguarded.

She wanted so very much to believe him.

"You honestly thought you could just come in here and . . . and summon me, because you finally felt like it? You did, didn't you?" She couldn't recall ever being this angry with him. "Well, you know what? Fuck you."

He looked at her owlishly, shocked. He definitely hadn't expected this. "Pansy?" he inquired, incredulous.

"Watch it, or I'll reiterate. Would you like that?"

"No," he shook his head, eyes wide, "It's just . . . I just . . . " His words faded into an uncomfortable silence.

"Why me?" she finally asked, the vapid question falling unchecked from her lips. He had given her no indication as to his motive.

"What do you mean 'why me'?" he asked, his bravado returning slightly. "That's an incredibly stupid question. I could have asked you the same thing two years ago, right?"

She didn't respond.

"Couldn't I have?" he pressed her; apparently he had recovered from her very unladylike remark.

Despite herself, her gaze wavered. She supposed he had a point, for if anyone were to ask her exactly why she had fancied him, she wouldn't have been able to tell them. She just knew she did. "Turn around."

"What?"

"I said turn around. I'm in my nightdress."

"And that's a problem because . . . ?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Or perhaps you ought rather go," she suggested hotly.

Once his back was to her, she crawled to the foot of her bed and retrieved her dressing gown. Donning it quickly, she ran a brush from her night table drawer through her hair, and worked a quick freshening charm through her mouth and teeth. Feeling less in disarray, she leaned back with her knees drawn protectively to her chest against the enormous pile of pillows she liked to keep at the head of her bed. She drew the covers, primly, all the way to her chin. "All right, then," she said.

He situated himself opposite her at the foot of her bed and rested his arms casually on his knees. Pansy fixed her torn bed curtains with a quick Reparo and placed a low-caliber privacy charm around them so they could speak using their normal voices, but, should the need arise, she could call for Millicent and Blaise.

From opposite sides of the bed they considered one another warily.

Pansy took in Draco's slender build. His angular, patrician face had always been attractive to her, as were his unusual grey eyes. His blond hair was tousled from their disagreement, and a few wayward locks fell against his cheeks. He wore a pair of very ordinary plaid flannel pyjama trousers and a navy-coloured, long sleeved t-shirt. She caught a glimpse of very pale hair between the tops of his socks and the cuffs of his pyjama bottoms.

"So," she said, breaking the silence.

"So."

"So," Pansy continued, a little too brightly, "do you shave, then?"

"Er . . . what?"

Caught off guard, Draco was bewildered by this unexpected, simple question. The scenario certainly wasn't unfolding into the suave and debonair experience he had indoctrinated into his personal fantasy of this moment, and he felt an uncharacteristic hesitancy come over him. He briefly considered fleeing on the wing of a wicked memory charm.

Draco had spent his Hogwarts years, thus far, quite oblivious to any female attention paid to him. The Yule Ball the previous winter had been his first event requiring he escort someone, and he had asked Pansy because she was familiar to him. He had spent the evening sneaking spoonfuls of an especially volatile enchanted confetti into peoples' drinks and sniggering when their robes had been covered with exploding liquid. As well he had talked Quidditch with the other Slytherin boys who cared as passionately about the sport as he did, and openly mocked Ron Weasley's unfortunate formalwear situation. He had considered Pansy rather bothersome. She had asked him several times to dance with her, but he hadn't wanted to dance at all. He didn't know how. He had felt no need to accommodate Pansy's expectations of the evening in any way. He had told her that her pink dress robes were pretty because he knew she hated them-- her mother had sent them, along with a stern written directive on social propriety -- and, really, wasn't that enough? He hadn't even noticed when she, Blaise, and Millicent had disappeared back to the Slytherin dungeons shortly before midnight. It had never occurred to him that he ought to have attended to her in any special way.

The dam had burst, so to speak, toward the end of their fourth year. Approximately a week prior to the Triwizard tournament, he had experienced an oddly satiating dream about-- what else -- Quidditch; however, this dream had also been filled with the flitting specter of his good friend Pansy Parkinson. It had not been an overtly sexual dream, yet Draco awoke the next morning wondering if his eyes had been surreptitiously ripped from his head and replaced with a new, better pair. He suddenly knew she was alive-- really alive -- and everything began coming up Pansies.

He inexplicably found himself observing her during their classes together, as well as in the Slytherin common room. He became a master of skulking surveillance, particularly whilst hidden behind the gigantic textbooks he took out from the library especially for this form of romantic surveillance. And, despite her ferocious crush on him during the past two years, Pansy was oblivious to his change in heart. She had made a single offhand comment before the term ended, stating how surely he must be getting exceptionally fine marks this quarter, no doubt due to all the extra studying he was doing.

For the first time, Draco really noticed Pansy's pale, petite hands with their elegantly tapered fingers. When she spoke, he soon found himself hanging on every word, approving of her naturally crisp inflection, and he very much enjoyed her dry wit. And the way her already-upturned nose crinkled when she laughed, he found, was really very fetching. He even liked the particular way her boring, standard-issue, black Mary Janes looked on her feet. Finally, one day, while sitting behind her and Blaise in Binns' class, bored and hot, he was unable to any longer resist his urge to take a tress of her long, dark hair and roll it through his fingers. Straight and smooth, it had been incredibly soft. Yet, she had recoiled at his touch.

"Don't you dare dip my hair into your inkwell," she had accused, and then had huffily turned forward again, bringing all her hair to drape over the front of her shoulder with a deft twist of her hand -- far from his reach. She had been completely oblivious. Unfortunately for Draco, Blaise Zabini had not been.

Blaise's eyes had widened with surprise when she caught the fleeting unguarded look on Draco's face, and the savory revelation of his predicament blossomed through her mind like an unfurling rose, and she had let loose a particularly devilish smirk.

"Bully for you!" she had mouthed, before returning her attention to Professor Binns with a haughty toss of her reddish-gold hair.

Yes, indeed. Bully for Draco.

Of when Pansy had come to think of him as someone she needed to defend herself against, he was unsure. He realised, in a completely atypical moment of insight, he absolutely couldn't justify begrudging her for it. After all, it had only been a month since he actually had dipped the ends of her carefully plaited hair into his inkwell. As well, he had come to understand, with a sinking feeling of defeat, her massive crush on him had receded just before his reciprocal feelings had unexpectedly burst forth. To a boy intrinsically accustomed to indulgence, this was beyond intolerable.

While waiting to sit for their final potions exam last year, Draco had covertly listened as Seamus Finnigan regaled Dean Thomas with a an intriguing tale of how he had surprised the very giggly Lavender Brown in her bed one Saturday morning. Sneaking into the fourth year girls' bedchamber, Finnigan had lobbed some of Harry Potter's old practice Snitches over Lavender's drawn canopies. She had been utterly delighted, according to Seamus, and had cheerily bounded from bed, all set and ready to accompany him to the Great Hall for a spot of breakfast. She had even let Finnigan hold her hand.

His awkward introduction to his primeval side had been but the tip of the iceberg for him. By mid-July, his hormones were raging uncontrollably through his system like some kind of fiendish insanity potion. He became obsessed with winning Pansy's affections. However, he was, to this point, completely unversed in normal companionship, much less the subtle nuances required for a successful romance.

It really didn't require a complex analysis.

Draco was slowly, painfully, being introduced to the concept that no matter his family name, his impeccable lineage or historical familial prestige, the numerous Malfoy Gringotts accounts, his sleek and shiny Nimbus 2001, or his Quidditch position as Slytherin's Seeker, he was completely inept when it came to relating to his peers.

He was, however, extremely intellectually capable, hence cognizant of his limitations, if only at a very rudimentary level. Before his feelings for Pansy had unexpectedly erupted, Draco had never before found anything worth the discomfort challenging his fundamental shortcomings would bring forth. His meticulously constructed emotional masonry had insulated him soundly, which, of course, had been the purpose. Yet, now, it was a mere hindrance to his new goals. It was bad enough he was bollocks at friendship, he had realised, but now the additional prospect of juggling his insane adolescent impulses had caused him to seriously consider taking asylum in the Randy, Yet Emotionally Retarded wing at St. Mungo's.

Draco had been woefully unable to banish Seamus Finnigan's intriguing tale of his early-morning bedchamber visit from completely pervading his thoughts--not that he'd ever admit to harboring fantasies of Gryffindor origins. He really hadn't given much thought to actually putting any kind of similar plan of his own into action just yet; however, the shite on the train with the Weasleys, the stress of the impending duel, and the thoroughly beastly conversation with Professor Dumbledore the previous night had just been too much. Driven by the very normal human instinct for companionship, he had somewhat impulsively sought Pansy out.

He was completely flummoxed when she hurled him from her bed. It had never once occurred to him that she might summarily reject his -- in his opinion, of course -- very valiant overture. He had meant to be playful. He realised with utter panic, as he was being ejected, that he really hadn't the slightest idea how to go about gaining her affection, or even how to make his own feelings toward her known. He had inadvertently angered her. And how on earth would he ever live her rejection down, even if he only had to live with the memory in the privacy of his own mind? The entire situation was so utterly cringe-worthy, Draco began to seriously fantasize about flinging himself from the Astronomy Tower in abject humiliation.

Yet.

Yet . . . he was at least sitting on Pansy's bed right now, and that had to count for something, he felt. She hadn't made him leave, ultimately. And right now he thought she looked so very pretty, all nervous and drawn up like that under her pile of covers. All these new urges helped to assuage his instinctive reservations. He felt so compelled to impress her, to somehow demonstrate his feelings, but for the first time in his life he was finding himself completely cowed by inexperience and unable to summon a decent bluff. At this moment he craved her companionship more than anything else he could imagine, but as the situation unfolded, he was faced with unexpected and unfamiliar emotional impressions. Years of bullying and sarcastic self-isolation had rendered him quite unversed in applying the most basic of human emotions-- simple affection, compassion, empathy, contentedness -- let alone able to make sense of his romantic feelings in any rational way.

Draco was scared.

His fantasy now fully decimated, Draco realised he would be forced to proceed blindly; however, seeing Pansy in front of him like this compelled him to take the chance that he might connect with her in some meaningful way. She was unbearably enticing to him in her simple pink dressing gown. Determinedly, he began moving toward her.

A wave of panic crossed her face, and she clutched her duvet even tighter to her chest.

At least he had learned enough during their earlier tussle to hesitate when he saw her reaction. Feeling massively idiotic, Draco took a deep breath and mustered his bravado. "I'm coming up there."

Pansy's brown eyes were saucers.

He crawled up the bed toward her. Her tightening grip on the bedcovers let him know when he was close enough. Rising, he sat back against his feet so Pansy's drawn and covered legs fit neatly between his straddled knees.

Pansy thought her heart would surely burst forth from her chest as he stared down at her with his serious grey eyes. She could see his throat working nervously and was tremendously relieved that she wasn't the only one feeling totally inept.

Slowly Draco raised his right hand to touch her left arm, which, in her nervousness, had fallen from beneath the safety of her covers. He had never touched a girl -- anyone -- like this in the whole of his life, and he prayed upon the sweet fringe of Merlin's beard that he was doing it right. Tentatively, he ran his fingers under the loose sleeve of her dressing gown to the crook of her elbow, as his heart thumped madly within his chest.

A fine trail of goosebumps rose on Pansy's skin where he touched her, and her insides, literally, began quaking. She had never kissed a boy, and she was right scared -- and now Draco was inclining his head toward her.

"I'm a prat," he whispered, so quietly she almost missed the words. He withdrew his hand from her sleeve and moved it upward, slowly, until he reached her collarbone. He brushed his fingers over the pulse in her neck, just below the curve of her jaw. She felt his warm breath against her cheek, but he didn't yet attempt to proceed.

"Too right you are," she whispered, barely able to speak for her constricted throat.

He remained where he was for just a moment longer, watching her. Her shaking intensified and she felt acutely self-conscious of her obvious nerves. Carefully, he slid his hand around to the back of her neck and urged her forward slightly, touching his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes reflexively. His courage peaking, Draco drew in a slightly ragged breath, closed his own eyes, and touched his lips over hers, landing the gentlest of kisses. Her lips were warm and soft.

He pulled away after lingering there for a moment, still unbelievably nervous. Let me have done this right . . . I swear I'll -never- be an arsehole again . . . okay, well, perhaps -less- of an arsehole . . . and the -circumstances- of being an arsehole would, of course, have to be taken into consideration . . . Father always did say context was essential. Being this close to Pansy was just too much for him, and a hot wave of desire washed through his groin, centering there. His lips were now at her ear and she could feel his warm breath.

He retreated, casually nicking one of the fluffy feather pillows she had been leaning against from behind her, as he drew back. "I guess I'd better go," he said after a moment. He was looking at her curiously. She nodded her assent. "It's your turn to cover your eyes."

"What?"

"I said it's your turn to cover your eyes," he looked at her expectantly, a slow flush creeping over his cheeks. Clearly he was trying to convey something important.

"What are you going on about?" She was totally confused.

"Oh Gods, Pansy, don't make me spell it out for you," his eyes were pleading with her.

"I'm not underst-- Oh. Oh!" The realisation spread quickly through her brain.

"Yes," he said dryly, "Oh."

She had finally noticed where he had placed the pillow he had nicked from her -- right over his crotch. Pansy couldn't help herself-- she burst into a fit of unabashed giggling. Draco flushed, but nonetheless managed a weak flick of his lips.

"That's my boy," Pansy said cheekily, out of habit, upon his familiar look. The smirk faded, though, as Draco considered her seriously again.

"Say that again," he urged, immediately feeling ridiculously stupid as the insipid words rushed forth. His worst fears were realised: Indeed, he must be clinically insane.

The final wall of the shaky fortress Pansy had forcibly constructed around her heart the prior year silently crumbled away, but she wouldn't let him know he could gain entry so easily. No, he didn't have to know. Not yet. "No," she said, with an imperious rise of her chin.

He smirked again. She's tough.

Pansy didn't want to say anything further that might ruin it all, so she obligingly covering her eyes with her hands. She felt him jump down from her bed and heard the sound of the bed curtains being drawn. He then turned back and poked his head through the canopies.

"So, breakfast?" he inquired.

"That would be good." She wasn't hungry in the least -- her body was still surging with adrenaline.

"Maybe afterward we can review spells for the duel."

"All right, then. Give me about a half hour to get ready," she said, mentally ticking off her morning routine.

"Well, I'll need at least an hour," he responded, rather pompously. She crinkled her nose at him and smiled, shaking her head.

"And Pans?" he asked, his eyes glittering. "Don't make me wait for your decision. About me, that is."

"You'll wait as long as I want you to."

He smirked again, then stole away. She lifted her fingers to her mouth, where his had just been, and touched her fingertips to her lips, lightly tracing them.

Draco kissed me. I've been kissed.

When she heard the final click of the door, she scrambled quickly to the foot of her bed and threw back her canopies with an invigorated flourish. Ascertaining he was, indeed, gone, she flew across the room and leapt onto Blaise's bed, shaking her friend awake.

"Blaise! Blaise, get up! You will not believe what just happened . . . "

In an identical bedchamber to Pansy's, on the opposite side of the Slytherin dormitory, Draco lay on his own bed blithely ignoring the growling crescendo of snoring coming from his roommates. He didn't really need an hour to primp--although that was ideal--but rather he just really needed to contemplate what had just occurred. He absolutely couldn't believe he had summoned the courage. He savoured the memory of Pansy tucked under her duvets and he would never tell her he had actually watched her sleeping for quite a while before giving her cause to stir.

Breakfast really wasn't as awkward as Pansy had thought it might be, owing to her nerves over the impeding duel. She consciously avoided further consideration of this morning's escapade in her bed. When she, Millicent and Draco had finished eating, they went first to the Slytherin dungeons to meet up with Blaise before making their way to Dumbledore's office. As they reached the Headmaster's quarters they saw Professors Snape and McGonagall were already waiting, and, as they had sighted their Gryffindor rivals several staircases below them while climbing their way upward, Pansy knew it wouldn't be long until everyone was there. She was proven correct when the five Gryffindors arrived within minutes. Dumbledore summoned Filch and requested that George and Draco hand over their respective Scyllae. George scrounged through his robes. Ever refined, Draco handed over to the Headmaster a rich, vanilla-coloured envelope complete with a wax seal.

George seemed to be having a time of it. "I'm positive I put them in my pocket, just here . . . " he muttered.

"Hang on a minute," Fred interjected. "Hey, I've got them here. Hmm, that's strange . . . " He had pulled three folded notes from his pocket and was examining them, clueless.

"You've nicked my robes again, haven't you?" George accused, incredulous.

"Well, not on purpose, git. Besides, you got dressed before I did!"

Dumbledore accepted George's rumpled Scyllae. He sat at his desk and broke the seal on Draco's envelope, extracting three small, elegant cards inscribed with Draco's impeccable handwriting. Next, he unfolded George's parchments and smoothed them over Draco's Scyllae. He began to read, giving each one lengthy consideration. When he had finished, Dumbledore laid them back into a neat pile and drew his wand.

"The Scyllae Messorium does not take long," he said.

Pansy's insides heaved slightly, nervous as she was, and she unconsciously moved closer to Draco. Their robes allowed a bit of discretion; nobody noticed as he moved his hand slightly so it brushed against hers. She flicked her little finger against his palm in return.

Dumbledore tapped the Scyllae with his wand. "Temerarious."

Shimmering with a rich golden glow, George and Draco's Scyllae rose languidly into the air before the Headmaster and began undulating slowly.

"Teneo proeliator puteus," Dumbledore's voice took on a concentrated, deeper tone. The Scyllae quickly picked up speed and began throwing masses of golden sparks from their whirling vortex. Several landed on Pansy's hand with a warm tingle.

"Electus vox refero sic utriusque vires lucror!" Faster they spun. Pansy's heart knocked excitedly against her ribcage in anticipation.

"I haven't heard this version of the Scylla Messorium before," Hermione mused quietly, looking slightly confused. "I've read the Scylla Messorium spell before and it didn't sound like this."

"Finite Incantatum!" Dumbledore lowered his wand. The Scyllae split into two orbs of glittering light and hovered for just a moment before taking flight through Dumbledore's office with a high-pitched whine. One of the ball's colours had morphed into silver and green, the other's into scarlet and gold. Like two Snitches, the streaming balls of light careened around the room's circumference several times, before streaking toward a small, pewter, hinged box, which stood at the ready on Dumbledore's desk. The combined force of the orbs hitting the vessel as they entered caused its hinged lid to fall shut and the box tumbled backward over itself. With a fading glow the box locked itself with a click.

The Scyllae were now sealed.

Unceremoniously, Dumbledore handed the box over to Filch.

"For you to keep, Argus, as the Scyllae Messorius."

Without comment Filch pocketed the small container and left Dumbledore's quarters.

"That is all," Dumbledore said, "I shall be at the pitch by half two should there be any last-minute questions. Your school robes and uniform shall be required."

A distant rumble of thunder sounded, and Pansy hoped dearly any impending rain would keep until the evening. What could possibly be worse than a duelling formally in the rain on a squishy Quidditch pitch?

"Oh, and, Severus?" Dumbledore rummaged briefly under his desk before straightening, holding what appeared to be an armload of folded table linens. "Your dust cloths."

By a quarter past two Pansy was groomed and ready, and she came down from her room to find Draco standing by the fireplace. She thought he was really quite good looking, especially now that age was helping to soften his angular features as he grew. Sensing her presence, he turned from the hearth.

"Ready?" she asked, smiling bravely. Draco nodded, his face stonily impassive.

The Slytherin common room brimmed with those milling about. Students from all years approached Draco -- some more cautiously than others, of course -- and gave him their best wishes.

"Good luck today, Malfoy."

"Another fine moment to come for Slytherin, right mate?"

"We'll be cheering for you!"

Pansy figured this would surely fortify him, although he remained staid in his acknowledgements. She knew he didn't have close friends; he was a boy of acquaintance. She herself was his closest friend, and by no means did she think she knew him completely. Over the years she had correctly deduced most of Slytherin House was just as nervous and unsure of him as the rest of Hogwarts. He commanded that kind of wary reaction. It wasn't that people disliked him per se -- Potter and Weasley aside -- but rather people wanted to be in his good graces to avoid his tempestuous side, not because they particularly desired his companionship.

However, today, in a show of solidarity, Slytherin House walked together, unified, to the Quidditch pitch. Per Scotland, the dark clouds had steadily advanced, and had completely covered the skies since the mid-day meal. Unfortunately, Pansy could smell the rain in the air, although it had not started falling. The entire school was turning out for the duel, as was to be expected. Hagrid even brought along several of his interesting creatures.

"Thou' they might like ter watch," he said, his black eyes darting beadily.

By a quarter to three, the Weasleys appeared over the hill, flanked by Harry, Hermione, and many other Gryffindors. Students and teachers alike filled the towering Quidditch stands and it was nice to note the four houses were spread out fairly equally, instead of automatically segregating themselves as they would during an actual Quidditch match.

Professors Snape and Sinistra were just completing the duelling platform's final set-up. The platform was approximately six feet in width and forty feet long. It was topped by a springy, cushioned surface, which decreased the possibility of accidental slippage. Years of duelling practices had rendered it scuffed and worn; the decorative moons-and-stars pattern, which had once shined the platform's top so brilliantly, was barely visible now.

The Weasley brothers chased each other up and down the platform stairs, poking and tripping one another in jest. Draco climbed up as well, and stood with his arms crossed, his school robes billowing slightly in the breeze. At exactly three o'clock Dumbledore lumbered onto the platform and beckoned both boys to the center of the stage. Pansy and Professor Snape followed Draco to where the Headmaster was; Professor McGonagall headed up the rear with Ron Weasley.

"I will remind you both of your requirement to fair play," Dumbledore said, "Please present your wands."

George held his out first. "Mr. Weasley, you have a new wand." Professor Dumbledore noted.

Draco's stomach jolted. Since when did any of the Weasleys have a halfway decent wand? he pondered angrily. Crap.

"That's right, Professor," George beamed, "Ash, with a dragon's heartstring core."

The Headmaster returned the wand to George. "I'm pleased that you may work with such excellent equipment."

"Mr. Malfoy?" Draco turned over his wand. Dumbledore briefly closed his eyes as he held it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Mahogany with . . . a Runespoor core?" Draco nodded silently, his lip curling involuntarily with distaste.

Draco hated his wand. As most British wizarding families had done for centuries, Lucius had taken his son to Ollivander's. Draco had been mortified when the cursed thing chose him, for he was the first Malfoy in generations to not come away with a dragon's heartstring wand having chosen him. Lucius had been livid, and had practically thrown the elegant wand across the counter back toward Mr. Ollivander, demanding another trial for Draco. Mr. Ollivander had flatly refused.

"The wand chooses the wiz--" Ollivander had started, but Lucius would have none of it.

"Oh, spare me your marketing theatrics, Ollivander," Lucius had sneered icily. "Now bring out the dragon's heartstring wands, if you please."

"'Tis no mere slogan, Mr. Malfoy," Mr. Ollivander was visibly affronted. "As you know." The subject was apparently closed to further consideration. The craftsman turned his attention to Draco and considered him; for almost a full minute he said nothing. Then, his voice heavy with some kind of emotion unknown to Draco, he had said slowly, "You are destined for great things." The old man's dark eyes had shone brightly, Draco could see this even through the darkness in the front room of the ancient shop.

"Ridiculous, Ollivander," Lucius Malfoy had hissed, turning to his wife. "Narcissa, be so kind as to speak with him further. Perhaps you can talk sense into the man." Narcissa Malfoy hurried forth to haggle with Mr. Ollivander and Draco himself had barely time to manage a cursory nod of acknowledgement before Lucius had hauled him from the wand shop, and onto Madam Malkin's to have his robes fitted.

Draco still begrudged the simple mahogany stick of wood. He had never grown fond of it. It was beautiful to look at, yes, but he had never felt any particular alliance between himself and his most important instrument.

"Miss Parkinson?" Dumbledore pronounced her wand (walnut with a unicorn tail hair core) fit, as well as Ron Weasley's (willow, also with a core of unicorn's hair).

"Take your positions, then," Dumbledore said, and made his way down from the duelling platform. Professor Snape courteously guided Pansy by her elbow and positioned her as the second upon a small abutment adjacent to the stairs. "Good luck," he said, and then continued down from the platform, making his way to the sidelines. She observed Ron Weasley standing opposite her, down the length of the platform. Draco and George stood alone in the center of the duelling stage.

"Sonorus." Pansy heard Dumbledore say, as he cast an amplification charm.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Weasley," he commanded, "Please return your wands to your robes momentarily. You will please acknowledge each other."

With one hand held behind the back at the waist, and the other held to their side, Draco and George bowed stiffly to one another.

At least no handshakes, Pansy thought.

"Now, shake hands, please, as a gesture of good faith," Dumbledore instructed. Draco snorted audibly at the very idea; neither boy moved.

"Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore's amplified voice rumbled gravely across the pitch, "You will shake hands -- like the men that you are." Glaring, Draco and George reluctantly lifted their hands and brought them together in a swift, sharp smack, neither bothering to clasp the other's fingers at all. Without waiting for Dumbledore's affirmation, they turned on their heels and quickly walked to their respective ends of the stage, and again drew their wands.

"Draco . . . " Pansy whispered, feeling a bit panicky.

"It's okay, Pansy." He didn't look at her. "I'm okay."

"I shall give a signal to be at the ready. When I count to three the duel will commence. Please remember the official grace period in a formal duel is fifteen seconds for countering spells. All right. Wands at the ready. Repraesento."

Deftly, Draco and George moved into the classic duelling stance -- wand arm raised overhead ready to cast, the other outstretched toward their opponent.

"One . . . Two . . . Three!"

A rush of adrenaline surged through Pansy's gut as Draco glided beautifully into his first spell.

"Impedimenta!" he cried, and a brilliant amethyst stream of energy erupted from the end of his wand. Simultaneously, Pansy heard the whistling sound of George's incoming spell, and a red stream hit Draco squarely in his chest; instantly he was upside down, as if held at the ankle by a giant hand.

Unfazed, and still upside down, Draco directed his wand at the ginger-haired boy down the stage. "Confundo!"

George took a stunning hit, also to the chest, and abruptly sat down cross-legged on his end of the platform and gazed skyward. Confused, he looked through the crowd and past his brother Ron, apparently not knowing where he was or what he was doing.

Ron Weasley called confidently from his abridged section of the stage. "George! It's just the Confundus charm! Come on, now! Fight it!" he encouraged.

Draco managed to tap his ankle with his wand to counter George's spell, and he tumbled to the platform -- a mass of black robes, his light hair askew. George fought his way out from under the Confundus charm, and the two faced off again.

"Addormio!" Draco sent a sleeping spell whizzing down the platform; however, in his haste to avoid George's second spell, which was fast coming toward him, his aim was slightly off. Inadvertently, the spell hit Ron Weasley instead and Ron fell to the ground, snoring loudly.

Draco narrowly dodged George's incoming spell.

Pansy could see Harry Potter and Hermione standing on the pitch, off to the side of the Weasley brothers. Undoubtedly they were both chomping at the bit to try and help, but they could not, or the duel would be automatically awarded to Draco for their interference.

George managed to hit Draco with a sneezing charm, which allowed Ron enough time to wake. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. It was essential in any duel that the second be available to take over at a moment's notice; having a second asleep at one's feet simply wouldn't do. With a shake of his head, Ron cleared his senses and was at the ready again.

"Brutus Anima!" George's next spell came hurtling down the platform. The magical wind he conjured was so powerful Draco was blown completely off the platform and Pansy's school robes were torn from her completely, even though she stood to the side. Seemingly on wing, her robe soared through the air like fluttering black cloud, finally coming to rest in the middle of the pitch. Staggering, Pansy ignored her lost robes and focused on regaining her footing.

"Draco?" she called nervously. She could see George gearing up for another spell. Steadfastly, she swallowed her nerves and faced him, her wand arm in the ready position. She had fifteen seconds between the time the original spell hit Draco and her having to step in as his second. Mentally, she began estimating the seconds. She had counted to nine by the time Draco breezed by her from behind and resumed his position.

"Intempestivus!" he cast furiously, and George was sent spinning through the air to land in the grass of the pitch. George was a Beater, though, and quite used to being hurtled about; he was on his feet instantly and back onto the platform within seconds.

The stands shook with the cheers of the crowd and the applause, which actually seemed surprisingly reciprocal in Pansy's estimation. Woolly scarves, triangular flags, and paper pom-poms with the Slytherin and Gryffindor house colors swam in her peripheral vision as she refocused her attention on Draco and George.

Several more spells were exchanged, each hitting the intended targets. The ferocity of the duel was very intense and she could see both George and Draco were starting to tire. Draco's blonde hair had fallen forward completely, mussed by George's magical wind, and a single rivulet of perspiration was trickling down his left temple. The duel was dragging out far longer than any practice session Pansy had ever participated in.

Finally, the rain that had been threatening all day began to fall, heavy and cool.

Pansy saw that George had not gotten up from his last hit, and was fraught with laughter from Draco's simple Titillo spell. Grateful for the small break, Draco focused on catching his breath, and he let his head hang as he rested his hands on his knees. Ron Weasley, with a careful eye to his brother's condition, prepared to second. The tall, lanky redhead assumed his duelling position.

"Draco!" Pansy hissed, alerting him. George was still flopping on the ground, invisible fingers tickling him mercilessly.

Thirteen . . .

"Ron's up, Draco."

Fourteen . . . fifteen . . .

"Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore nodded to the younger brother.

"Profundus verum!" Ron bellowed.

From his elegant new wand a brilliant red beam burst forth. Draco's eyes widened as it came toward him; he sent his defensive counter-spell a scintilla too late.

"Tuo Sonorum!" Ron thundered, and a second beam was quickly on the tail of his first spell.

Ron Weasley's sparkling beam wrapped itself around Draco's body and snaked quickly into his ear. Before the first spell could even take, Weasley's second spell slammed into Draco's body and he jolted from their combined energy.

The pitch was filled with the amplified sound of very patrician, very unmistakable voice: Draco's.

"I got my first kiss this morning. Does Pansy know I had never kissed a girl before . . . ?"

The crowd roared.

Pansy was confused. What kind of spell is -this-? She wracked her brains, mentally paging through her Charms text.

"What if someone finds my Blankey?" Draco's disembodied voice drawled, "I keep hiding it in the manor, but Mother always finds it and sneaks it back into my school trunk . . .

Pansy's mouth gaped.

Could Father -really- think I'm a pouf, or did he just say that because he was angry I found those magazines of his . . . ?"

Nothing would ever compare to the horrified look on Draco's face at that moment, as his deepest and most guarded thoughts and insecurities were somehow poured forth to lay at the feet of the entire population of Hogwarts for their consideration.

"And despite her rather unfortunate teeth, I Granger's eyes are sort of pretty . . . they are so dark . . . "

Her astonishment forgotten, Pansy wheeled on Draco with her hands on her hips. "Is that true?" she demanded petulantly.

Draco's eyes widened with humiliation and he fled the platform.

"MY EYES ARE DARK TOO!" she screamed after him, stomping her foot.

The pitch shook with howling laughter. Harry Potter was banging his head and fists against the side of the duelling platform, laughing so hard Pansy could see his stomach shaking through his robes. He even managed to crack his glasses.

Hermione's haughty look of triumph conveyed this moment was clearly worth enduring a thousand of Draco's 'Mudblood' barbs to her.

Fred and Ginny Weasley jumped up and down so ferociously, all the while screaming and laughing, and applauding their brother, they actually knocked one another over. The Gryffindors throughout the stands, especially, were practically frothing at the mouth, so great was their collective jubilation at Draco's disgrace.

Draco has a . . . Blankey? Pansy shook the intrusive thought away and trundled down the platform's stairs to look for him. To escape the wretched spell, he hadn't bothered with the stairs, but rather had launched himself right from the side of the platform and had landed with a squishy splat in the sodden grass, and had then crawled under the protection of the stage to hide.

George had finally extricated himself from Draco's tickling charm and dragged himself to join Ron; the latter brother was strutting around the platform in an exaggerated, circular victory dance, waving his arms above his head. To Pansy, he looked like a ridiculous red chicken flapping about in a farmyard.

"Bad form, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore admonished firmly.

" . . . Why does Potter -always- have to best me . . . no matter what?" Draco's voice continued to echo through the pitch. The dreary rain began falling faster. "I'll bet even his-"-- a tremendous boom of thunder clapped just then, drowning out all other sound-- "-is bigger than mine . . . "

"Get back up there," Pansy commanded desperately, ducking her head under the platform to meet his eyes, "or you'll forfeit!" She could not release the spell or give him further direction, or they would lose by default.

"Why, hello there, Pansy! Did you know that I've been dreaming about shagging you for months now?" Draco closed his eyes.

Pansy spoke fiercely, "Oh, don't think you're so bloody special. It's not like your secrets are worse than the rest of ours!"

"I shall put in for a transfer to Durmstrang . . . "

"Mr. Malfoy, you have six seconds to forfeiture," Dumbledore informed, neutrally. Draco did not move.

"Oh, bloody hell, Draco! I've dreamed of shagging you, too," Pansy hissed, turning to go. Reconsidering, she doubled back and grabbed his chin in her hand. "But if you don't get back up there, I never will," she whispered silkily. Sprinting for the platform, she scrambled up the stairs to face George, who had recovered sufficiently enough to allow Ron to step aside.

With an elegant arc of her wand, Pansy took her place as Draco's second. She was so angry with Ron Weasley she felt she could take down the entire school, never mind just the Weasley clan.

"Penitus Flamma!" she cried and a rich emerald jet issued forth from her wand and clocked George squarely between the eyes. He fell to the ground writhing, his system frozen with pain. Furious, Pansy strode the length of the platform with her wand outstretched and towered over her opponent. From the corner of her eye she could see both Professors Snape and Sinistra rushing to confer with Dumbledore; the Penitus Flamma was in no way a standard spell, and she knew she'd be asked to explain herself later, but she was beyond caring.

"Release the spell on Draco. Now!" Pansy's wand hand shook with anger. "Or I'll make it worse."

"I . . . I can't," George gasped.

"And there was that time one of Father's ghastly associates asked me if I wanted to see his snake, and I said yes . . . I didn't know what he meant . . . " Draco's voice kept coming, although it was fainter.

Pansy flicked her wand mercilessly at the stricken boy. "Magis Estus!"

George contorted again on the platform, his mouth gaping uselessly like a beached carp's. Pansy sent the spell again. "Magis Estus!".

George screamed in pain as burning sensations coursed uncontrollably through his body. Pansy knelt at his side, careful to both watch her time and keep her eye on Ron.

"Weasley, I don't care what it takes. Release that spell!"

" . . . I . . . can't . . . " George called weakly for his brother's assistance, "Ron . . . " The Penitus Flamma drained the strength of its targets very quickly, and George had been weakened even before Pansy had cast it.

"Four seconds, Mr. Weasley," Professor Dumbledore noted.

"I really hope you like your first taste of Cruciatus, Weasley," Pansy whispered viciously. "because this is a mere fraction of the real thing."

"Ron . . . " George gasped again.

Pansy stood to face Ron Weasley and Dumbledore gave the go-ahead.

"Divello!" Pansy sent a less spectacular spell this time. An invisible force knocked Ron backward. It gave her just enough time to sprint to her end of the platform.

"Most of the time I'm afraid I'm just as bloody worthless as our Gringotts account . . . "

Pansy cocked her head to the side. That last statement certainly didn't make sense coming from Draco. Wait a minute she listened carefully. That's not Draco!

Ron Weasley's voice was now booming across the pitch. Ron looked at Harry and Hermione, totally confused. Pansy suddenly felt the platform vibrating slightly under her feet, signaling someone was coming up the stairs.

Please, please, please, Draco . . . -please- be brave . . .

"Pansy," she finally heard his cool voice from behind her, "go ahead -- step aside."

Her heart warmed like chocolate after dementors.

"And really . . . girls don't find ginger hair masculine . . . I'll never get shagged . . . "

Draco had somehow reversed the spell.

"Excellent!" Pansy couldn't help herself, and she jumped up and down, smiling. The Slytherins in the crowd were absolutely roaring.

Ron's voice continued. "And what if Snape finds out that it -was- us who nicked those Polyjuice ingredients second year?"

Weasley closed his eyes against his traitorous brain and a painful grimace overtook his freckled face. Again, the crowd howled with vicarious appreciation, and Professor Snape lost all semblance of propriety.

"I knew it!" he roared, slapping his knee sharply as he rose to shake his finger wildly at the trio, his eyes glittering with the satisfaction of confirmation long sought. "You thieving, arrogant-- One hundred points from Gryffindor! One hundred points! From eachof you!" Harry and Hermione looked at one another, bewildered. Dumbledore silenced the potions master with a wave of his hand. Snape finally came to his senses and folded himself back into his seat, a look of icy triumph fixed on his face.

"If Harry weren't my best friend, I don't think anybody would give me a second glance . . . and speaking of Harry, why does he always have to get everything handed to him . . . why can't it be -me- just for once . . . just once . . . "

Draco and Ron faced each other menacingly. Ron's face was scarlet with embarrassment as he muttered the countercurse; his voice finally cut off. Draco's characteristic sneer was firmly in place.

"Fascinating secrets, Weasley," Draco called out derisively, "They're about as dull and boring as I'd expect from the likes of you."

"And I'll bet you'd just love to see my snake, Malfoy," Ron retorted. "Quadratus!"

"Quietus Nex!" Draco countered, before Ron's spell hit him.

Draco was instantly transfigured into a perfectly symmetrical cube, his pointy face stretched like a portrait canvas. With a painful crash, he clunked to the ground.

Ron was captured in the dreaded webbing of the Sleeping Death. It was a different, more powerful sleeping charm than Draco's first attempt. Hermione rushed in to clutch the edge of the platform as Ron pitched forward.

"No! Fight it, Ron! Fight!" she urged.

"Ron! Come on, mate!" Harry encouraged, joining Hermione.

Pansy focused her attention on Draco as he fought to will his body back into its normal shape; his cubical body stretched and bubbled oddly, like a fetus in its mother's womb, as he attempted to revert to his normal state.

"Draco . . . relax. The Quadratus is most effective when a person is tense."

Pansy could see the part of the cube where Draco's eyebrows were furrowing slightly, as his focused concentration contorted his face. Finally, an arm popped back into place, but it hung uselessly. Then, a leg returned, shooting him unexpectedly back into a standing position, and a very precarious one at that. Draco hopped uselessly on the leg, his one normal arm swinging ridiculously front to back.

At the other end of the platform, Ron fought the Sleeping Death. Slowly he got to his hands and knees; like a punch-drunk, he fell down again, his head falling to the side.

"Come on Ron! Get up! You can do it!" Hermione was beside herself.

Again, Ron rolled to his stomach and pushed his arms against the matted top of the duelling platform. He managed to get to his hands and knees, and used all the effort he could muster to not fall back asleep. The heavy rain continued to fall, and Ron let his head hang listlessly between his outstretched arms.

George stepped forward and Pansy prepared to face him.

Draco's other arm reappeared, inadvertently ejecting his wand; it clattered to the ground. Unable to support his top-heavy shape on just one leg anymore, Draco toppled and found himself caught on his back like some kind of strange, square insect. He looked like a bizarre cubical version of the giant squid with his arms and legs undulating wildly.

Dumbledore nodded to Pansy and George.

"Gero Laqueus!" George shouted.

"Dorer Lis!" It was a spell Fleur Delacour had taught a small group of Slytherin girls the past year during her stay at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. A monstrous, perfectly beautiful white lily emerged from Pansy's wand and barreled down the platform, completely swallowing George within its gaping petalled mouth. As the giant flower encased George, Pansy collapsed in pain; looking down she was horrified to see a massive steel bear trap clamped viciously around her foot and ankle. She pulled her leg to her, a cold wave of nausea washing through her. The pain was excruciating.

Okay. Okay. She tried to calm herself; she had to think of a counterspell for a bear trap of Muggle origins. The searing pain in her ankle was making it difficult to focus. Bear trap . . . bear trap . . . Pansy willed herself to focus, utterly loathing the wretched Mudblood who undoubtedly came up with this particular spell. Bear traps are spring mechanisms, she thought. How do I release it without taking my foot off at the joint?

Next to her, Draco reddened progressively as he strained mightily against the Quadratus.

Ron Weasley was on his knees. He had forced his body upward and his arms were now hanging by his side. But, he was upright. Next to him, George fought the Gilded Lily as if he were trying to punch his way from the inside of a balloon.

"Draco! Weasley's up!" Pansy urged frantically, tears threatening to well in her eyes. A muffled gurgling sound came from him and finally his other leg reappeared.

Ron was now on his feet -- weaving slightly, but standing nonetheless. He put out his hands to steady his balance.

"Bloody hell, Draco! Ron's up . . . come on!" Pansy was frantic. More gurgling came forth from him in response.

"Five seconds," called Dumbledore.

Draco's torso reappeared; his still-square head was beet red from his efforts. Four . . .

Ron Weasley forced his eyes open. Pansy could see him muttering to himself; with a shimmer the spell was broken.

Three . . .

Finally landing upon the proper countercharm, George sliced through the thick, rubbery petals of his flowery cage with his wand and stumbled out.

Two . . .

Desperately, Pansy pointed her wand at her foot and readied herself for the pain to come. "Effrego is!" She cried out as the invisible hammer she conjured smashed the steel trap. The broken pieces of the trap dissipated.

One . . .

"The duel is awarded to George and Ron Weasley," Dumbledore announced to the anxious crowd just as Draco's head finally reappeared. The pitch exploded in a massive wave of cheering.

"No!" Draco cried, stumbling to his feet and lurching forward.

Hermione's fingers rose to touch her lips, her eyes widening.

"Shite!" Draco plunked himself back onto the ground, stretching his arms forward to rest on his bent knees. His head hanging, the rain dripped beadily from his pale hair and his cheeks were still quite flushed from the effects of the Quadradus. "Shite," he muttered again, shaking his head in angry disbelief.

Pansy stood with her arms hanging limply at her sides and considered him for a moment before reaching down to collect his wand, which had rolled to the edge of the platform during his final efforts. She held it out to him and rather abruptly extended her other hand to help him get up.

He ignored her.

"Don't embarrass yourself further by being petulant," Pansy said sharply. "People are coming."

Truth told, Draco fiercely wanted nothing more at that particular moment than to act the petulant child, and he planned to treat himself to a right royal sulk in the privacy of the dungeons later when this business was settled. However, he ultimately he chose to accept her proffered hand, and rose. Without a word he nicked his wand from her and stuffed it into his robes. Their fellow Slytherins were gathering around. There was, of course, an air of disappointment, but it was not an inner-house issue per se-- at least not one that affected the House standings; this was personal. Thus, there were no hard feelings to be had.

"Excellent show, old man!"

"Just a second earlier and you would've have it for certain . . . "

"You'll have to teach me the Penitus Flamma, Pansy-- that's a wicked spell!"

Dumbledore beckoned to Draco, Pansy and the Weasley brothers. Pansy had managed to salvage her sodden robes from the pitch, and the soaked garment now hung listlessly from her shoulders, chilling her to the bone. She didn't know why she had even bothered putting it back on. Her ankle still throbbed from the steel tines of George's bear trap.

Mr. Filch held the Scyllae box in his grubby hand. Without preamble, the Headmaster tapped the box with his wand. "Revelo!" he directed. The box opened.

The red and gold orb shot out of box first and simply dissipated. The green and silver orb zipped from its holding place and fluttered gently into Dumbledore's waiting hand. With a few final spins its energy was expended, and it was once again a rumpled piece of parchment: it was Draco's consequence.

Dumbledore opened the folded parchment and read it, then passed it to Filch to review. Filch's lips curled into a sallow leer as he turned to Draco.

"Well, laddie," he sneered, "guess who's taking Muggle Studies until he's done with Hogwarts?"

George punched the air with his fist. "Yes!"

Hermione giggled madly, and Ron and Harry did a silly pseudo-dance on the balls of their feet, lightly hammering their fists together in some sort of weird, triumphant ritual. Pansy thoroughly loathed the lot of them.

"Muggle Studies?" Draco was aghast. "I'm not taking Muggle Studies!" His expression was as if his mouth had been forcibly packed with Skrewt droppings.

"Mr. Malfoy, you are required to take Muggle Studies through your seventh year. That is your consequence," Dumbledore said. "Now, it is quite chilly and very damp, and my robes are beginning to smell like wet sheep. I should like to excuse myself now to the warmth of my fire. Good day, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Weasley."

Stunned, Draco started after the Headmaster. "But . . . but . . . my schedule is already full!" he said, hurrying after Dumbledore, slipping on the wet grass in his haste. Despite his age, Dumbledore was spry and Draco had to take full strides to keep up with him.

"Might I suggest Miss Granger, then, as an able assistant in matters concerning an unusually high course load? You need only ask her-" The Headmaster was rudely cut off.

"The only thing I'm going to ask Miss Granger is when and where she'd like to kiss my sweet, ripe-"

"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore thundered severely, his eyes very stern as he faced his remonstrative charge, "You will hold your tongue, seeing as it is to blame for this very situation! You knew the risks of accepting a duelling challenge, and you tendered your consent through your participation in the binding of the Scyllae Messorius. You will take Muggle Studies, and I fully expect you to give your best efforts."

"But, Professor Dumbledore," Draco pleaded, grasping at any loophole, "my father will never allow-"

Again the Headmaster hushed the boy, but this time his eyes were merely sympathetic as he placed a wrinkled hand on Malfoy's shoulder.

"Your father has no say in this matter, Draco," he said gently, shaking his head.

"But . . . my father expects O.W.L.s in all my subjects! If I fail such a . . . a simple class, I'll never hear the end of it! And if I actually earn an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies . . . well, it might be even worse!"

"Yes," Dumbledore said mildly, "I do see your quandary; however, I can only reiterate my expectation that you perform to your abilities, which, I happen to know, are quite superiour."

"So, what the bloody hell is the point of all this?" Draco fumed, once again stalking after the Headmaster, who had resumed his journey back to the castle. "What's it going to prove? Consorting with Muggles . . . honestly . . . "

"Taking a class in Muggle Studies, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore began, slightly amused, "hardly constitutes 'consorting.' However, since you asked, Draco, I believe the point of all this, if I may quote Mr. Weasley, is 'come-uppance.' And no matter who we are there always comes a time in life when we each need a bit of it. Good day to you."

Draco watched the Headmaster as he disappeared over the sloping hill. Then he stalked off. Pansy ran to catch up with him and had to trot to keep pace. She didn't know what to offer him, really, but thought maybe she ought to walk with him anyhow. She knew him well enough to surmise she ought not say anything just yet. At the last minute before reaching the castle, Draco veered away from the main entrance to Hogwarts and started around its backside without a saying word.

"Draco . . . ?" Pansy stopped. Clearly he needed some time alone to cool off. She watched him disappear; sighing heavily, she turned around and headed into the castle.

Soggy and quite ill-tempered, Pansy entered the Great Hall in search of Blaise and Millicent, who had gone ahead while she was attending to Draco. Polite applause and even a few cheers erupted from all the house tables when she came through the massive doors. Hmm. This is a surprise, she thought. Their good form lessened the sting of the loss -- well, slightly anyway.

The Weasleys were holding court at the Gryffindor table. Upon sighting her, Ron and George both rose and sauntered over to the Slytherin table.

"Pansy," George said, "I thought I ought to thank you for taking part in the duel, although I must say, Malfoy must have something pretty bad over for you to actually agree to be his second."

"And I suppose you'll be wanting some sort of gracious acknowledgement now?" she sniffed, rolling her eyes as she gripped her steaming mug of hot chocolate for warmth.

"George," Ron interjected, "I'm not sure that's exactly the best way to express your gratitude."

"Er . . . uh . . . well, you look an absolute fright . . . " George blathered on, clearly out of his element.

"Wow. Thanks, Weasley. You do wonders for a girl's self-image," Pansy snorted. "No wonder you're all single."

"What these two complete idiots mean to say, is thank you for your efforts today," Hermione had swooped in from the Gryffindor table to haul the Weasleys back. "And furthermore -- although, as you know, I don't exactly get on with Malfoy -- it would be untrue to say he isn't a formidable dueller. You certainly held your own, too." Hermione pushed the Weasley brothers back toward the Gryffindor table, which was likely a good thing, seeing as Crabbe and Goyle had lumbered to their feet.

"God, sit down," Pansy said to the two hulking boys, annoyed. "Good boys. Now then, Granger, as much as I'd love to make time for a lovely little chit-chat with you, I'm really very tired, so let's say we pick back up at a later date. Perhaps 2006?"

Instead, Hermione plopped herself down next to Pansy at the Slytherin table. All the Slytherins stopped eating and collectively stared down the long, heavy table, their mouths agape.

"I thought about what you said to me in Dumbledore's office last night-- about me being as big a snob as any Slytherin -- and, well, I expect you're right. Look, I'm not here on some sort of grandiose peace mission . . . "

"Good. Because you know where you can shove your olive branch."

"Anyway," Hermione continued breezily, ignoring Pansy's suggestion, "I thought it would be sporting to acknowledge your participation today, and to let you know that I am considering my own prejudices in light of our conversation. So, I guess I'll see you in class." With that, she stood and walked briskly back to the Gryffindor table.

"Well, that was . . . interesting," Pansy commented to Millicent. "Maybe that headlock you gave her in second year has finally caught up with her." Millicent snorted, a smile playing at her lips. Goyle reached across the table, a napkin in his hand.

"Here," he grunted, tossing it to Pansy.

"What's this for?"

"So you can wipe down the seat where the Mudblood sat."

Pansy wasn't sure why it bothered her so.

"You know, Greg, Draco's not here, so you can drop the sycophant act. Besides," Pansy's eyes narrowed dangerously, "your grandmother is a Mudblood. So I wouldn't go around making any judgements on the matter if I were you."

"What did you just say to me?" Gregory Goyle's face reddened.

"Oh dear," Pansy cooed, feigning a recalcitrant look, "you did know, didn't you? Funny . . . everybody else certainly does. You should ask your parents for the truth. Honestly, one wonders how you even managed to get into Slytherin. Did your parents bribe the hat?"

Goyle was utterly devastated. "You . . . you don't have to be a Pureblood to be Sorted into Slytherin," he stammered. "Tom Riddle was a half-blood . . . "

"And maybe that's good food for thought if you ever get around to examining your priorities. Besides," Pansy threw the cloth napkin back to Goyle as she stood, hitting him in the chest, "you are certainly no Tom Riddle. The very idea is laughable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm finding your company to be rather unappetising."

Upon reaching the Slytherin common room, Pansy asked Malcolm Baddock to see about Draco.

"Sorry Pansy, but he's not up there," the slight boy reported, huffing from his quick flight up and down the dormitory stairs.

"All right, then. Thanks anyhow."

She was still damp and cold, and her hair had partially dried into long, stringy clumps. She wanted nothing more than to sink up to her eyeballs in a steaming, hot bath, followed by her favorite set of warm, pink pyjamas, and a seat in front of the fire. She could practically smell the bath salts beckoning her.

Sighing heavily, Pansy turned and left the dungeons.

She began looking for him behind the castle, and then in the greenhouses. She didn't find him in either place, but she did manage to step in a vat of fermenting compost, which had been hidden under several swaths of dried palm fronds in greenhouse number three. Cursing, she attempted to rinse the muck from her shoe using one of Sprout's hoses, but managed only to lose her balance and fall into a pile of fresh potting soil. The dirt clung to her like flies on a pie. She was cold, miserable, and crabby. Cringing inwardly at her revolting state, Pansy resisted her urge to run screaming from the greenhouse and to give herself a thorough shaking, head to foot, like a great, shaggy dog.

She found herself bewildered, and not just a little uneasy, when she had searched all the places she could think of where Draco might be without any luck. Finally, she ended up behind Hagrid's hut, exhausted and frustrated, all ideas of where he could possibly be expended. She extracted her wand from her pocket and prepared to cast the "Point Me" charm. Pausing, she thought for a moment.

Feh. He probably just wants to sulk privately for a while -- to lick his wounds and all that.

Pansy turned to start back to the castle, and finally allowed free consideration of the hot bath she had been obsessing about to take over her mind, when something hit her in the back of the head.

"Bloody hell!" she exclaimed, bringing her hand up to the back of her neck. When she brought it away, she found it covered with sticky, yellowish-brown mud. She turned just in time to see another goopy mud ball closing in on her.

Splat!

Hitting her just over her left breast, the sticky ball of mud rolled sloppily down the length of her robes, clinging to the rich, black fabric until it dripped onto the ground in a foul pile. And here another mud ball was coming; this time she managed to duck it.

Livid, Pansy stalked determinedly into the forest, tracing the offending object's path of travel. Within a few feet of the forest's edge, Pansy found Draco sitting on the forest floor, lounging against a lovely old ash tree, directing a levitating ball of muck using a circular pattern with his wand. With a flick of his wrist he clocked Pansy in the hip with his earthen projectile.

"What are you doing?" she asked, disbelieving.

"I'm sulking. Privately." He scrutinised her, noticing her hair was an abysmally appalling mess -- a clumpy amalgamation of greenhouse samples, mud, and grass. Draco wisely suppressed his urge to laugh. She was bedraggled and her ruint clothes drooped severely from the damp. One of her prim, charcoal knee stockings had fallen below her calf and was bunched sloppily around her ankle, caked with dirt and grass.

"You certainly look a fright."

"Oh, well, thanks for that, but just so you know, I've already been told," she retorted dryly. "What's with the wand? Don't you even know how to throw a mudball by yourself?"

Draco regarded her as if she had suggested something as drastic and vile as washing his own laundry. "Why would I put my hands in the mud when I can use my wand?" he asked, conjuring another mud ball, a smaller one this time, and sent it toward her. It landed on her shoe. He had been fairly sheltered from the rain showers under the great canopy of the forest, so his hair wasn't dripping anymore. She marched forward until she towered over him, and stood with her arms crossed over her chest.

Draco breathed in deeply, "Mmm! And what an incredible smell you've discovered . . . "

"Let's go. People are asking after you."

"As if anyone remotely cares whether I'm all right," he said morosely, looking up at her.

"Shut up," she answered crossly. "Your friends care about you, Draco, and all that. Now, let me put my violin away, and let's go. The weather's really quite yucky."

"Pansy," he snorted lightly, his grey eyes dull, "I haven't got friends. I know that."

Inexplicably, she found herself swiftly kneeling down to where he sat, and she straddled his lap, frustrated and angry at his utter impossibility. She pressed him forcefully back against the ash tree and took his face between her grimy, mud-covered hands, registering the feeling of the cold Scottish rain misting against them. See me. Right now.

"Draco," she said fiercely, holding his face. "Draco, I'm your friend, you stupid dolt. I've always been your friend . . . " And then she was kissing him with complete abandon; madly, deeply kissing him right there in the misty rain under the dripping leaves of the ash tree, her hands leaving muddy traces on his cheeks. Her earlier awkwardness vanished and she was overtaken by an intuitive knowledge of just what she needed to do.

Instantly, his hands were inside her rumpled robes, and then under her blouse and jumper, which had pulled loose from her waistband during the duel. Pansy barely registered the shock of his cold hands against the warm skin of her torso as he pulled her closer to him, their chests crushing together.

She thought he tasted absolutely sublime and quickly came to relish the new feeling of his tongue dancing against hers, and she wondered why on earth she had been even remotely fearful that morning. Her primal instincts were guiding her flawlessly at present. Her insides suddenly felt as if they were spontaneously redistributing themselves, and her brain seemed to slow as she lost herself in the feeling. She understood -- finally understood -- why her mother had so persistently pestered her about "relationships" this past summer, and she grudgingly acknowledged the legitimacy of her parents' concern, for this incredible longing, aching feeling in her belly was by far the most pleasurable sensation she had ever experienced. The fact that she was experiencing it with Draco only increased its intensity.

Draco was floored Pansy had initiated this, but he certainly wasn't about to complain, lest he wake up to find it all a dream. As he found himself unexpectedly knocking at the door to his personal fantasy trove he felt almost feral. Unceremoniously, he pushed her onto the forest floor and moved over her.

"This okay?" he asked breathlessly, between kisses, remembering their prior miscommunication. Pansy answered by locking her muddy hands through his hair and pulling his mouth back to hers, and they kissed and kissed and kissed. Finally, with a rock digging into her behind, she bent her leg in order to adjust her hip, and inadvertently wedged Draco tightly against her pelvis.

"Oh God," he groaned, feeling the tension build between his legs.

"Are you hurt?" She was worried.

"No," he said huskily, shaking his head with an amused smile. Tentatively, he traced her bottom lip lightly with his tongue. He had read about this particular move in one of Lucius' illicit magazines during his summer perv-fest. She seemed to like it.

Knowing if they continued for much longer he would absolutely lose control of himself, Draco reluctantly pulled away and stared down at Pansy. Several leaves and a twig were now caught in her hair on top of everything else, and she clutched his neck tightly.

"I didn't mean to be so . . . forward," her chest rose and fell rapidly.

He could feel the distinct firmness of her breasts pressed against his chest, through their robes. Oh, good. Very good. Thank you, Merlin! "Don't apologise," he said, shaking his head and looking inquisitively at her.

"So, was it worth it?" she asked cheekily.

"Was what worth what?"

"This. All of this. The duel . . . losing the duel. This. You and me, here in the forest -- in the rain and the mud. And all the . . . wonderful smells . . . and three years of Muggle Studies?"

He answered her emphatically. "Yes. Even if we only do this once."

Delighted, a beaming smile lit up Pansy's face, and nothing -- nothing -- would ever tarnish the memory of the sheer perfection of this for Draco. Neither the wretched prospect of having to deign to take Muggle Studies, nor his emotional shortcomings fazed him in the slightest at this one moment in time. Even the knowledge of his father's certain impending wrath could not take away the purely wonderful feeling he was experiencing.

As an old man looking back, Draco would emphatically remember it as the moment his heart grew three sizes.

Not that he'd ever tell her that.

"It won't be just this once," she said, her eyes shining.

Expecto Patronum!

Draco Malfoy had his Happy Thought.