Muggle Studies

Every night the fabulous jewelry made from sky brilliants
the stars -- flicker above people's heads.
They have decorated the night sky for thousands of years
And none of them have disappeared.
Why? Because the god Marduk put into the sky
An eternally awakened dragon, who guards them fiercely. . .

Breakfast at the Slytherin table started out very normally and, frankly, Pansy was surprised at the lack of ribbing from her fellow classmates. Typically, the chance to start in with the Slytherins would be irresistible. She bit into her second piece of toast when the thought actually occurred to her.

How will I ever fit Muggle Studies into my schedule?

Her chewing slowed and she was soon left with a mealy lump pouched in her cheek as she contemplated her quandary. She hadn't the slightest idea when the Muggle Studies class was held, or even where. She knew no one who was enrolled in Muggle Studies, nor which professor taught the course.

"Are you going to swallow that lump of cud in your mouth, or do you need a napkin?" Blaise asked through her own slice of toast. "You look a bit green."

Pansy held out her hand and accepted Blaise's napkin, recoiling inwardly as she met Goyle's slack-jawed stare across the table. She brought the napkin to her mouth and discretely spit out her mouthful of toast. Folding it into quarters, she held it toward the hulking boy across the table from her with a practised flip of the wrist. "Want a bite?" She had never liked him and felt no qualms about reveling thoroughly in her usual snark. Naturally, she was feeling particularly irritable this morning, and, under the circumstances, she certainly didn't mind taking her frustrations out on someone like Goyle. As she opened her mouth to throw out another quip, Draco's voice drawled from behind her and his newly-familiar scent filled her nostrils.

"You know what the signs always say, Pansy," he said briskly. "Don't feed the animals." He climbed over the bench and took a seat. Glancing across the table, he gave Goyle a flick of the eyebrow, and Goyle scowled, returning wordlessly to his porridge.

Draco had never before sat next to her during a meal. Across from her, yes. But never aside her.

"Well, well, well," Millicent said slyly, helping herself to a second scone. "Look everyone! It's Martin Miggs."

Draco threw his very best glare at her. "Sod off, Bulstrode."

"Aww . . . is the ickle Muggle mad?" Millicent asked innocently; the Slytherins roared with laughter. Sulkily, Draco selected a scone for himself and, per his usual morning routine, Acciod two extra mugs from unoccupied place settings further down the table. He poured himself three cups of coffee, draining one immediately. He turned to Pansy, his expression still surly.

"Hello."

She refused to answer.

"Problem?" he asked, draining his second cup of coffee. She hoped it scalded his voicebox to next Tuesday.

"Problem? Why, no. It's just the fact that our resident caffeine addict, who also happens to be sufficiently inept as to lose a duel to the Weasleys -- of all people -- has left me needing to fit in Muggle Studies. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, as I have tonnes of slack time in my schedule. In fact, I think there's an entire six minutes between Potions and Defence that I haven't already accounted for." Pansy tapped her fork against her plate and fixed a hard gaze on him, flicking her eyes to the jumble of mugs in front of him. "Oh, and I know that caffeine group--" She made little 'quotey' marks in the air with her fingers as she spoke. "-- 'wasn't your style,' but you really should address your drinking problem. Just for the record, it's no wonder you're so irritable."

Nonplussed, Draco considered her coolly. "I'm, irritable? So what's your excuse, then? Seems you're ill-tempered enough for the both of us, and that's without the benefit of chemicals." Unrepentant, he drained his third cup and slammed the empty mug to the tabletop. "As you know, I feel ever so terrible about the the unfortunate turn of events, Pans . . ."

Pansy was quite certain Draco was, in fact, not particularly aggrieved. Her eyes narrowed and she felt an irrational anger rising in her chest as he continued. She knew he'd done his best, and it wasn't fair of her to be petulant, yet she couldn't help herself.

"Aw, come on, don't be like this. Let me make it up to you . . . I could take you on a walk -- to the Forbidden Forest, perhaps? I've heard certain kinds of visits there will do wonders for cranky dispositions."

It was too much. "Oh, piss off!"

"That's not what you wanted me to do yesterday, unless you're much naughtier than I thought," he said smugly.

She considered shoving her toast up his nostril. "Stop it." What had begun last night as a slight twinge of regret at having kissed him ballooned monstrously. It had been an irrepressible impulse for her, a tiny pocket of vulnerability she had inadvertently stumbled into. Her feelings had completely blindsided her and this unsettled her. Last night, deep in the sleepless throes of anxiety and regret, she had eventually come to hope their foray might mean enough to Draco that he would not deign to use it against her. Meeting his gaze, Pansy let Draco fully register her displeasure.

Blaise's eyes widened. "No!" she exclaimed, her toast dropping to her plate. "Pansy?" Blaise looked expectantly between her and Draco; upon registering Pansy's expression of guilt, she practically shrieked with glee. "You did, didn't you?! Pansy, why didn't you tell me? Pansy, take points from yourself! It's a travesty!" All the Slytherins, from both directions, were now openly craning their necks to see down the long table, attempting to deduce the topic of discussion.

Draco was affronted. "I am anything but a travesty, Zabini," he sniffed, objecting to the mere suggestion.

Blaise tossed her crust at him. "Not you, git," she said, rolling her eyes. "That Pansy didn't tell me!"

He brushed at his robes prissily, clearing the crumbs. "Maybe it's because she didn't want it ANNOUNCED TO THE ENTIRE STUDENT BODY!" he retorted, mocking dramatically.

"Like you're any better?" Pansy glowered.

"Hey," he objected, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I did nothing of the sort-"

"You just did!" Blaise interrupted reproachfully.

"God, would you two quit bickering for five seconds?" Pansy huffed.

"You're bickering with him too!" Blaise pointed out.

"Ladies, ladies." Draco feigned modesty. "Please try and contain yourselves in my presence. Yes, I know it's difficult . . . "

"Shut your gob!" Both Blaise and Pansy answered at the same time.

Millicent finished her scone and dabbed daintily at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "In the forest? Hmm. And, how was it, then? Is he any good?" she asked Pansy, motioning toward Draco with her head.

"Of course I am," Draco interjected, fourth coffee in hand.

"Millicent!" Pansy hissed, through clenched teeth. "A bit of discretion, please. Honestly!"

Millicent shrugged. "No need to be huffy!"

Draco's triumphant smirk clearly conveyed his approval of the current conversation.

"It was rather unexpected," Pansy explained quickly, feeling uncomfortably warm and prickly about her neck. Draco's smirk widened. The prat is actually gloating, she realised, and for some reason this angered her. She rose from the table, inadvertently knocking over her half-finished glass of juice. Going against her genteel upbringing, she would have liked nothing more than to painfully wipe the self-satisfied look from his face with a well-placed slap. "I was stupid for hoping yesterday might have meant. . ." her voice trailed as she searched for adequate words through her fury, "well, something to you. Well, at least everybody will know you've finally been snogged -- and perhaps the entire school will now know you're not gay."

Blaise and Crabbe stifled their snorts into their scones as Pansy ponced from the Great Hall.

Back at the Slytherin table, Millicent and Blaise were left with Draco, who was genuinely befuddled by Pansy's reaction.

"Well, that went brilliantly," Millicent observed, suppressing a smile.

"I was joking," he answered.

"You mean you and Pansy didn't snog in the forest?" Crabbe asked, shaking his head. "That's a tough break. Man, I sure do wish I could get her out there-"

"Don't even fantasise about it. Believe me, it will never happen. The very thought is sickening," Draco said, rolling his eyes.

"Like you're any better?" Crabbe shot back, directing a knowing look at Millicent and Blaise. "You should hear him moaning in his bed. Oh Paaaannnsy!" he mocked. The younger Slytherin girls at the table began tittering. Blaise's eyebrows arched and she leaned forward expectantly.

"Ooo, really? How long's he been doing that?"

"A good six months, I reckon--"

"Crabbe," Draco's lip curled and his cheeks began to flush, "do shut up."

"What? You talk in your sleep, you know." This time the victor, Crabbe returned to his breakfast.

Draco regarded the girls. "Pansy understands." Right? She did . . . didn't she?

Millicent and Blaise regarded Draco silently. Realisation of how his behaviour might have come across a bit differently than he originally thought spread slowly through his brain, like a puddle of ink blown gently across a fibrous scrap of parchment.

"Here's what I understand, Draco. We all only get one first kiss. And you've ruined Pansy's," Blaise said testily. "Sometimes you're really beneath contempt." Slamming her goblet to the tabletop, Blaise left the Great Hall with a dramatic sweep. With a sigh, Draco dropped his head into his hands and rubbed slightly at his temples.

"Yes, indeed, Draco," Millicent said, grinning wider than the Cheshire cat, "you're doing exceptionally well this year I'd say."

Females really -were- difficult, Draco concluded with a sigh. And Slytherin girls were clearly worse than the norm.

Having not found Pansy in the Slytherin dungeons, Draco now stood on the outer stairs of the grand entrance hall, his wand lying prone in his outstretched hand.

"Reperio Pansy."

Draco's wand swung and pointed him toward the lake.

Yesterday's weather had cleared and the brilliant blue sky indicated a lovely day was in store. Draco was a closet aesthete, or at least partially so. He liked walking the grounds alone, and it was an indulgence he took liberal advantage of in his day-to-day life. On this morning the lake was especially inviting, the bright morning sun glinting from its blue water, a surfeit of gleaming diamonds. Even though he was on a mission of other sorts, he stopped to select a handful of clean, flat stones to skip across the lake's sparkling surface.

As he threw the last rock, over-handed this time, toward the center of the lake, he couldn't help but grin when the giant squid -- without even bothering to surface fully -- unfurled one great tentacle languidly from the water and caught his projectile with ease. "I suppose you probably get a lot of practice," Draco said to the peachy-red tentacle, which quickly disappeared under the surface once again, leaving a small circle of bubbles in its wake.

He supposed he was taking his time in finding Pansy because he was unsure of what to say. Check that. He knew what he ought to say -- what was normally expected in such a situation -- but he was unsure of his ability to adequately voice words of contrition. It was completely out of character for him.

The lake was longer than it was wide, and the great castle eventually sank from sight, into the mellow blueness of the water. By the time he found himself walking around its furthest shores, it was long gone. He found Pansy sitting atop a large, jagged outcropping of rock, her back to him. She had removed her robes, and had fashioned them into a makeshift cushion of sorts for her to sit cross-legged on top of. Draco climbed up to stand behind her, his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Pansy?"

He knew she heard him, although she did not immediately respond. Finally, she turned her head ever so slightly in his direction, as if to examine her shoulder for a wayward bit of fuzz, and nothing more. Draco quietly observed her elegant posture, her pert nose, and her pretty lashes lashes. She was wearing a beige skirt, a white blouse, and a baby-blue cashmere cardigan. Her hair was pulled neatly back into a simple, sleek ponytail, which was secured at the nape of her neck. She looked so conservatively delicious it was nearly impossible to compare her to the muddy, disheveled girl he had encountered the day before. Although part of him secretly relished that memory, of course, he was at least smart enough to suppress the chuckle that rose in his throat as he savoured it privately -- she had been a dismal fright in general; however, this was quickly overshadowed by the memory of kissing her and the way that had made him feel. Draco had to fight the urge to ravish her right there on the jutting rocks.

Taking a deep breath, and willing his body to behave, Draco took a seat beside her. Several minutes passed silently.

"Pansy." Finally her gaze shifted toward him, but just slightly.

"You think poorly of me," she said, rather bleakly.

Draco closed his eyes against the wave of contrition which rose in his gut, despite himself. No. No, I don't . . .

" Even you aren't that thick," she said, the hurt evident in her voice.

"Well," he said wryly, "I apparently am."

At last she looked at him fully and her gaze ripped right through him, making him feel nakedly vulnerable, as if some secret self he was just at this moment realising he had was somehow being revealed to her without his express permission. He bravely held her gaze, though, until she returned her attention to lake below. Peacock-blue coloured fish leapt from the water in search of a meal, their delicate, tissue-like fins fluttering in the breeze. Their iridescent sides slapped softly against the water as they made contact with the lake again.

"Blaise told me that I ruined your first kiss," he continued.

"It was yours, too."

"Says who?" he bristled, slightly embarrassed.

"Ron Weasley," she said dully, remembering the duel. "The whole school knows, surely you remember?"

He rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

"And, for some reason, you felt compelled to taint it for me. Why is that, Draco?"

"You know, technically," he said, avoiding her question, "the forest wasn't our first kiss. The one on your bed was really the first."

"Well, that a rather glib attempt at diversion, Draco, but you can't possibly think you're explaining yourself."

Pansy was sorely disappointed at the direction this was taking. Realistically, she knew it would be silly of her to expect Draco to have any kind of sudden, progressive emotional insight just because they'd snogged, and she knew him well enough to be aware that he was putting forth his better efforts at the moment. For now, it would just have to do.

In so many ways they would be considered a perfect match. They knew each other by default, and the physical attraction between them was apparantly powerful. Pansy had doubts, though -- doubts, which festered quietly, constantly, in her brain, despite her best efforts to will them away. Before the Triwizard events, she had deliberately avoided contemplating the rumours of Draco's supposed ties to Voldemort. She knew of Lucius Malfoy's leanings, of course, but Draco's were something neither she nor her peers had ever approached him about directly. No Slytherin she knew of had ever dared to ask him, which was actually quite odd, because when they found themselves in the midst of a particularly black humour, the Slytherins as a group rather enjoyed teasing each other and poking fun at their schoolmates' fearful assumptions.

So it was with a rather poignant sense of foreboding that Pansy had to acknowledge to herself that she was quite unsure whether she could fully choose him. To partner someone like Draco Malfoy would mean complete acceptance of who he was and all he encompassed. She at least knew two things: he was not at all the kind of boy a smart girl ought ever romanticise, nor would he ever qualify as just a casual relationship to her. No, not even remotely. He'd had their entire lives to fully permeate every fibre of her being.

She felt as if she were standing at the edge of a great, bottomless precipice, its updrafts licking at her, reminding her of the risk.

"Draco?"

"Hmm?" He was so arresting to her at that particular moment, as he watched the lake, with the morning sun highlighting his unique profile.

"Is your family aligned with Voldemort?"

He didn't respond immediately. "What to do?" he mused, in an odd tone, after a few moments of silence had passed. "If I tell you no, there goes my image-" Draco snapped his fingers. "-just like that. You know the one I mean: Junior Death Eater, Son of Lucius Malfoy, and, of course, Slytherin God Extraordinaire." A cheeky grin briefly graced his lips at this last bit. "But, if I tell you yes…"

She waited silently until he shifted his gaze.

"The answer is yes," he said, watching her very carefully. "But, you already knew that."

Pansy recognised a single-biggest-risk moment when she saw it, and she knew at that moment that she would always love him for trusting her with it, that she loved him for it, and she knew instantly the precipice was gone -- that she had stepped off.

"What about your family, then?" he asked, chucking tiny bits of rock into the water below.

"No."

"Are you sure?" he asked, looking at her.

She hadn't really thought about it before. "Why?" she asked, frowning. "Wait, has your father implied-"

Draco shook his head. "That's not what I meant."

Fo a few moments they sat silent.

"So that's it for you, I suppose," Pansy finally said.

"Now what are you going on about? What's 'it' for me?"

"The alliance with Voldemort. You're . . . aligned with the Dark Lord." Pansy suddenly felt like weeping, although, as Draco had so aptly perceived, she wasn't overly surprised to have her suspicions confirmed. She had interrupted far too many of her parents' hushed conversations regarding political gossip and innuendo over her life to not have at least an inkling about the Malfoys' political leanings.

"I said my family is," he sniffed, "I'm fifteen. And I'm no house elf." Two spots of colour had blossomed on his cheeks.

"Fifteen and a half," she reminded him. "Explain all that business on the Hogwarts Express last year, then. You practically paid homage to Voldemort right there on the train," she continued waspishly, taking on a mocking tone. "Oh look! Voldie's back, hurrah! I'm surprised you weren't selling t-shirts."

He looked at her as if she were daft. "What, that little thing?" He waved his hand dismissively. "I just said that to bug Potter."

Pansy couldn't help herself; even though she wanted with all her might to remain stern with him, she laughed. "I see. Well then, if that's the way it's to be, it's high time you learned the cold, hard truth, Draco-- so brace yourself. You look utterly smashing in facial tentacles."

The uneasy tension was broken.

"I suppose, though, it's safe to assume you have certain expectations upon you, right?" she asked, after regaining her composure.

"Yes, Pansy, that would be a prudent assumption." There was a reminescent flash of Snape, but Draco's eyes were far too clear and unguarded at the moment to fully carry off the comparison.

"Come on." Draco had climbed to his feet and was holding his hand out to her. She accepted it and he helped her stand, and then brushed off her robes and held them out for her.

"Thanks," she said, making her way down the rock face. Draco followed.

She made to begin toward the castle, but Draco caught her wrist in his hand and turned her toward him, pulling her close. Turning her yet again, he backed her up against the giant rock from which they had just disembarked, and brought his hand to her face. She tilted her face slightly into his palm and he brought his lips to hers. It was a very different kiss than any they had exchanged the day before. She thought surely he should taste strongly of coffee, but he did not. Again, she reflected on how very different this kiss was than the others they had shared. The first, in her bed, had been very tentative, while their experience in the forest had been fueled by mutual frustration, anger and unexpected lust. This kiss, though, was so very lovely in its simplicity. When the kiss ended, Draco kept his forehead to hers, just as he had the previous morning during his illicit bedroom visit.

"There you go," he said, matter-of-factly. "I say this is our official first kiss, so it's settled. Now, don't ever harass me about it again." Pansy giggled and tugged at his hand, but something was teasing at Draco's peripheral vision and he turned to look.

"What is it?" Pansy inquired, her arms still looped tightly around his waist.

Whatever it was it was gone; Draco felt a chill pass through him as he gazed at Pansy, and he willed the unfamiliar phantom away. Had he known what the fleeting shadow really was, he might have opted to stop for a moment, and he might have even wanted to preserve the memory for future consideration. But, he was distracted by kissing her, so he missed the moment the child inside took leave. He had stepped over the line, and as he had no further need of this spirit, it took its leave quite willingly. "Nothing. A bird maybe," he said, awkwardly smoothing her hair. They were so completely absorbed in each other that it was not at all surprising neither of them noticed the second figure -- a girlish wisp this time -- flitting from under their combined shadow and vanished through the gorse, while they stood kissing softly in the morning sun.

Draco sighed and tapped the feathery end of his quill absentmindedly on the parchment in front of him. He wracked his brains, alternately, to not only figure a way to work Muggle Studies into his rigid schedule, but also to come up with the perfect way of breaking the news of his current disgrace to his father.

Preferring to consider the former issue first, he painstakingly constructed a grid in which to schedule his studies. He started by filling in his required courses, those being Potions, Charms, DADA, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures, History of Magic, Herbology, and now, loathingly, Muggle Studies.

He consulted his notes again.

He enjoyed both Ancient Runes and Arithmancy; however, one would clearly have to go, as Muggle Studies took one of the only two time slots available for both courses. Now a fifth year, he could take up to nine courses; however, he wasn't feeling particularly motivated to load up on coursework. If he didn't, however, Lucius was sure to pitch a fit about "that Granger Mudblood" besting him academically.

Truth told Draco no longer cared -- not even remotely -- about Hermione Granger carrying the highest marks in their year. Gods, probably in the entire school, he thought. He didn't openly express this opinion to his father, though. He had been hoping dearly to take only seven subjects this year. His wishful thinking, however, had been completely obliterated by Weasley's well-placed Quadratus hex. As the duel would now provide even more fodder for Lucius, he accepted, albeit sulkily, that he would, indeed, be having a busy year.

He scratched away at the parchment with his quill- moving his course selections among the different time slots available and eliminated optional classes here and there until he was wholly satisfied his schedule was beyond further improvement. Next, he faced the unsavory task of informing his parents he would be taking Muggle Studies. He stared at a blank piece of parchment for almost thirty minutes, ruminating. Finally, succumbing to the inevitable, he dipped his quill.

Draco rolled his quill between his thumb and index finger, thinking...thinking…

Draco was quite analytical, sometimes irritatingly so. On a particularly bad day, he might be seen as the sort of person who would feel compelled to re-write such mundane things as a label from a bottle of Butterbeer, or letters to the Editor in The Daily Prophet. The Muggles had a specific term for this kind of behavior, but he couldn't recall it offhand. However, knowing this of himself, he decided he ought send the missive immediately, before he lost his nerve. Making his way quickly to the owlery, Draco attached his letter to Zeus and sent him flying into the afternoon sky.

In another part of the castle the Headmaster and the Potions Master were engaged in a discussion.

"I'm actually surprised he hasn't again come to me requesting a reprieve from his punishment," Dumbledore said, as he topped off Snape's teacup. "Typically, once is not enough for Mr. Malfoy. Over the past four years he's been here more times than I can count, always with a complaint. He is easily aggrieved."

Snape absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over the cup's rim, right above the handle.

"With all due respect, Headmaster, in some ways it is understandable," he said, leaning forward as he sipped his tea. "Draco has little power of his own, a profoundly lacking sense of self, and he is certainly not often encouraged to try and develop either of those things. He's fairly unapproachable to the other students." Snape had mixed feelings about the matter. "Of course the fact that he's a poncing prat to boot doesn't help."

"Actually, I just happened to see his owl leave the castle while I was preparing our tea," Dumbledore continued, pointing in the direction of the set he liked to keep on the sill of the window behind his desk. "My, what a majestic bird," he mused. "In fact, I must confess I do believe Fawkes is, unfortunately, nursing a rather unrequited love for the Malfoy owl."

Snape cocked an eyebrow. "Malfoy's owl is a male."

"Really, Severus," Dumbledore said, amused, "I figured you to be more progressive than that." He stirred his tea thoughtfully, finally laying his spoon across his saucer. "Anyhow, I am pleased Mr. Malfoy took it upon himself to inform his parents of the duel. Between you and I, I was quite hoping I wouldn't have to be the one to deliver the bad news."

"Will you be sharing the circumstances of the duel with Lucius and Narcissa?" Snape asked warily.

Dumbledore took pause. "If they ask, I shall. Of course, if Draco wishes to share the details with his parents, he is certainly free to do so."

"He won't."

They sat quietly for several minutes, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun.

"Severus," Dumbledore said softly, "I expect many issues will progressively escalate this year. I worry about several of my students more so than the rest and, like Harry, Draco Malfoy is one of those I fear for. He has a very sharp mind, but an even sharper tongue." Dumbledore contemplated this for a moment. "And, aside from Harry of course, if ever a child was born under a darker legacy I would not venture to say who it might be."

Snape sipped his tea slowly, appreciating its refreshing taste. Potions master he may be, but it was Dumbledore who bested him in the tea-brewing department. "Lucius will want Draco to take the mark by the time he leaves Hogwarts."

"He's shared a plan?" Dumbledore asked, fixing a serious gaze upon the younger man.

"Not to me directly, no, but I keep my ears open."

"And Draco? Does he know of this?"

"How could he not? I can but only hope that his childish nature and spoilt character will continue to keep him from achieving his potential in that area. Were he not so soundly restricted by his own puerile tendencies, I might feel more uneasily. Even I might fear the kind of Death Eater he could become."

Dumbledore shifted in his leather chair as he stroked his generous beard thoughtfully. "I still cannot say I agree with your position. It does not do the boy well to coddle him, Severus, even if your ultimate goal is quite noble."

Snape snorted into his tea. "I consider it a safety precaution, and a very necessary one, at that," he replied, his voice hardening slightly.

"Yes, I know that is your view. But, remember yourself at fifteen. What if your destiny had been played with in such a…an emasculating way? I venture to guess you would have been quite unforgiving," Dumbledore said. Snape's eyes narrowed.

"Yes, actually, I was rather unforgiving, wasn't I? Surely, you don't forget Sirius Black? I'm quite familiar with unexpected visits from one's mortality, Albus." Snape's voice was tight.

"No, of course I do not forget. I want to impress upon you, though, that in Mr. Malfoy's case a double transgression is in play. You were betrayed by folly, which tends to be more impersonal in its nature. Draco, though, is unknowingly caught in the overlapping webs of the two people he trusts above all -- you and his father. You both ignore his inherent right to individuality as a means to your respective ends. I believe it's a dangerous gamble. When Draco finds out-"

"He will not," Snape brought his teacup down to its saucer perhaps a bit too roughly, rattling the fine set. "I am doing the best I can to protect Draco -- whether or not this fact is ever acknowledged."

"You grossly underestimate him and it will come back to haunt you. Petulant and unpleasant he may be, but he is, as I mentioned, very bright. And he's hungry for things he cannot even name. I've seen like individuals -- they are relentless and they are always on the prowl. They are smart and charming. They are gifted and skilled. They are grandiose. And they can be extremely dangerous. You know Mr. Malfoy to be susceptible to this and more, Severus. Even now he embraces conspiracy in lieu of personal responsibility, and he's quick on his feet. It's only a matter of time before he ferrets out the truth." Dumbledore set his cup aside. "No pun intended," he finished dryly.

"On a different note," Snape said, changing course, "he's discovered Pansy Parkinson."

"Ah, Miss Parkinson," Dumbledore's eyes lit up. "And why ever not? She's quite an interesting young lady herself, although there's another one with a sharp tongue and an over-abundance of words to dice. Well, good for him! She'll give him a run for his money."

"Undoubtedly," Snape agreed, the slightest hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "In fact, Mr. Malfoy paid an early morning visit to her yesterday -- in her bedchamber."

Dumbledore's eyes were definitely twinkling now. "Indeed?" he smiled. "I'm almost afraid to ask how you came by this information."

"Let's just say," Snape said dryly, "I had a little help from Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs."

Dumbledore roared with laughter, shaking his leather wingback. "Pray tell, how on earth did you come to be in possession of the Marauder's Map?" he finally asked, wiping his eyes with an extra dusting chamois he had left on his desk.

"I was surprised to find it had been left in Moody's office at the end of last term. Of course I recognised it immediately from Potter's Hogsmeade escapade his third year, so I took it and worked with it over the summer. Frankly, I'm surprised the Aurors didn't take it as evidence. And, although I'm loathe to admit it, it's actually quite useful -- its makers not withstanding." With this, Snape cleared his throat, a disapproving scowl appearing on his thin lips.

Dumbledore shook with mirth.

Snape felt the sudden implication of impropriety. "Sir, just so you know, I was only using the map to look for Filch. I just happened to spot Mr. Malfoy's dot next to Miss Parkinson's in her bedchamber. I have a recurring leak coming through the ceiling in my chamber. It woke me."

"I thought no ill of you," Dumbledore said, his eyes still laughing. "However, on a more serious note, condoning intimate relationships between the students cannot be tolerated, especially within the dormitories. Have you spoken with them both?"

"I have not. Shall I?"

Dumbledore considered Snape's question. "Yes, please do." Groaning inwardly, Snape tried to displace the unsolicited, distasteful scenario of holding a discussion on teen sexuality with Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson.

"I must recall to your attention, Severus, your keen enthusiasm at the prospect of accepting additional responsibilities when you were offered Slytherin's Head of House position," Dumbledore prompted gently.

"You duped me with your empty promises of the Defence position, and you know it -- so turnabout is fair play. Anyhow, they were not engaged in sexual activity," Snape clarified, "so I opted to monitor the situation with the map."

"I'm not sure I understand. How so?" Dumbledore was intrigued.

"Over the holiday I took the liberty of enhancing the map's properties using an original potion called Affectus Ostendo. I've been researching it on and off for years, but I'd never found a useful purpose for it. The potion essentially contains elements of all human emotion. I used a Recepto charm on the actual parchment of the map, which enabled it to absorb the potion, and it activated an ability within the map to not only tell us where a given individual is at any time in the castle, but to also show us what emotions are present with a person," Snape explained, becoming more animated as he warmed to his favourite subject. "I was doing a simple inventory in early July and came across some Affectus Ostendo in my stores. In light of last year's circumstances, I thought perhaps it might somehow be used as a tool -- and would you believe the actual idea for an effective implementation came to me in a dream, of all things? Anyhow, instead of plain, gray dots on the map, individuals are now shown in colour, and the colours are coded. Red indicates a dangerous or troublesome mood, blue is sadness, black shows dark nagic, and so on -- of course that was my motivating factor in the first place, pinpointing dark magic, that is. Anyhow, fuchsia shows sexual activity and desire, but pales to light pink when only intimate thoughts are present. Green is jealousy, yellow is happiness, etcetera."

"Colours," Dumbledore mused, "How ever did you bind a single emotion to just one? Emotions are exceedingly complex."

"The Affectus Ostendo manifested its own assignments, but I'm working on some fine tuning. The colours do change, and they wax and wane as people go about their business, I've noticed."

"Truly fascinating," Dumbledore was duly impressed. "You must show it to me very soon." The Headmaster rounded his desk and clapped his hand to Snape's shoulder. "I commend you on your ambitious work and your initiative. I very much appreciate those qualities in you."

"Thank you," Snape inclined his head toward his mentor. "Now if only I can get the damn thing to stop insulting me." Both men rose and Snape made ready to return to his office to finish preparing for tomorrow's start of term. Dumbledore paused as they walked toward the door.

"I'm sure you'll work it out, Severus. Assuage my curiosity, though. As which colours did our nefarious lovebirds appear?"

"Miss Parkinson's dot was pink."

"And Mr. Malfoy?"

Snape hesitated slightly before answering. "Blue."

The next day found Draco moving stealthily through the cobbled hallways of the Hogwarts castle, trying to make his way as unobtrusively as possible toward the narrow, spiraling Muggle Studies tower. Called the Spire, it pierced Hogwarts' skyline as the second tallest point in the school, next to the Astronomy tower. The Spire was directly opposite Professor Trelawney's Divination tower, but, unlike the stifled and heady atmosphere of Trelawney's territory, this tower tended to retain a cooler air.

He was a bit early, as he was aiming to avoid anyone actually witnessing him entering the Muggle Studies classroom. Gingerly, he pushed open the heavy oak door and peeked around it to peer into the oval room. It wasn't particularly big, but it was quite tall. Along the front of the classroom four rectangular windows ran the length of the tower, peaking elegantly at their tips. A large and sturdy oak desk stood alone at the foot of the windows -- for the instructor, obviously. He moved slowly down the graduated aisle, which cut through the center of a rising hill of desks with heavy, matching benches. Pausing midway, Draco examined a small, glass, jar-like object, which was fused to the top of one of the desks. He ran his finger around its rim.

"What's this?" he inquired of the empty room. Leaning in further, he discerned the glass jars were inkwells -- he could see the flaky remnants of long-dried ink in their bottoms. Gently, he blew into the inkwell and unexpectedly treated himself to a blast of inky particles to his left eye. Embarrassed, he straightened, very grateful no one else was currently in the classroom with him. A roving glance around the room affirmed all the inkwells were dry.

Where's the ink?

Draco paused. He had never filled an inkwell at Hogwarts, come to think of it. The school handbook insisted all students carry two bottles of black Indian ink during school hours; however, he had never cracked a single bottle in class. The inkwells in every Hogwarts class he had ever found himself in had always been brimming with fresh, rich ink when he seated himself.

He placed his rucksack on a bench and began rummaging through it, looking for his supply.

"Anything interesting in there?"

Draco started at the unexpected voice; he hadn't even heard the door. "No."

"I see you made it," Pansy said, coming closer.

Draco shrugged.

"Where's the ink?" she asked, craning her neck, curious.

"There's none. That's what I'm looking for."

"Hmm. Maybe the wells won't fill themselves until after classes start."

"They fill themselves?"

Pansy gave him a quizzical look. "Didn't you know?"

"Never gave it a thought really," he sat down on a bench and drew her to him so she stood between his knees looking down at him.

"So, where did you think our ink came from?" she asked, slightly amused.

"I really don't care."

"I suppose you wouldn't."

"I suppose not."

"What do you concern yourself with then?"

"Other things." he said, simply.

A discreet cough came from the front of the room. Pansy and Draco drew apart, turning toward the source of the noise. A slight man leaned casually against the instructor's desk.

"Him . . . " Draco hissed quietly, his face falling into its usual smug mask.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," Remus Lupin said evenly from the front of the class, "and Miss Parkinson as well, am I correct?"

"Yes. Hello, Professor Lupin." She nodded in acknowledgement. Lupin ventured forth and, warily, the three regarded each other.

"I rather thought we might never see you again," Draco said. "The Ministry has changed its position on Lycanthropy, then?"

Lupin gave a wry chuckle. "Let's just say, Mr. Malfoy, that all bets are off, in light of recent events." The professor stared pointedly at Draco.

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning, sir."

"I am, of course, aware of the circumstances which bring you into this class, Mr. Malfoy. You will know that I would require a respectful attitude from you during our time together. I'm fully confident you both will find this experience to be more palatable if you earn decent marks and participate willingly."

"And you know this will make it easier on us how, Lupin?" He leaned back on the bench and crosses his arms.

"I think it's safe to say we all appreciate success, even in the worst of circumstances. It's human nature."

"And you would know about human nature, then?" Draco asked coldly, his eyes flat.

Lupin let Malfoy's cheek slide. "You think I know nothing of it," he stated blandly, considering the youth for a moment, ultimately opting not to continue the conversation's current direction. "All right. Well then. I have you both sitting front row center. Follow me and I'll show you to your seats."

Flicking a glance at Pansy, Draco hoisted his rucksack and swaggered after Lupin, who motioned them forward and directed them to their seats. Other students had begun trickling into the classroom, and were making no attempts to stifle their open sniggering at the two older Slytherins in their midst. In turn, Draco and Pansy stared pointedly ahead, easily ignoring the chiding. A loud group of students settled themselves noisily in the row behind them; Pansy was suddenly startled when a hand darted between them and tapped Draco's shoulder. He looked back.

"Oh," Draco rolled his eyes. "Brilliant."

Pansy turned to look. Ron Weasley waggled his fingers at her. She crinkled her nose in distaste.

"Hallo, there!" he mocked. Hermione was seated smugly between Ron and Harry, directly behind Draco. In fact, Pansy realised, there seemed to be quite a lot of Gryffindors surrounding them.

"I didn't know you lot took Muggle Studies," Pansy said coolly.

Ron's smile was positively shark-like. "We didn't. Not until now. But come on, did you honestly think we'd miss a chance to see you two in Muggle Studies? No way! Of course, Hermione did take it third year," he said, "but that goes without saying…"

Hermione shot Ron a look. "Oh stop. You make it sound like I've enrolled in every course."

"Haven't you?"

"No, I have not. You know very well I'm not taking Divination."

Pansy's interest was piqued, as she disliked Divination intensely. "Why aren't you in Divination?" she asked Hermione, despite herself. "I thought it was compulsory."

Draco clucked, shifting uncomfortably. "Who cares?" he sniffed, silently willing Pansy to stop speaking politely.

"I'd love to get out of Divination."

"Who would have thought it was possible, Malfoy," Ron said, amused, "for you to attract a girl with decent advice to give? Any girl who tells you to shut your gob is all right by my book."

"If anyone's gob needs stuffing right now, it's not Draco's," Pansy retorted smoothly.

"This, coming from Malfoy's minion," Ron noted.

Pansy drew back imperiously. "I am not a minion."

"You're not?" Draco interjected. "I'm disappointed."

Pansy shot him an icy glare. "Actually, Draco, Weasel's right. Do shut up." She turned back in her place. With a small snort, Draco gamely reached over to give her hand a squeeze, but she would have none of it. Swiftly, she delivered a whistling thwack to his knuckles with her wand. "Don't touch me!" The Gryffindors howled with laughter as Draco cradled his injured digits in his other hand.

"Ow," he protested, gaping at her. "That's my writing hand, Pansy!"

"Good!"

"Really, Pansy," Draco drawled. "You should use your words. Hasn't anyone taught you about 'I' statements?" A thin red welt was quickly appearing over the knuckles on his right hand; he blew on it to take the edge off before continuing. "Here's how it works: You say 'Draco, when you refer to me as your minion, I feel shamed and embarrassed.' Mother says 'I' statements are all the rage . . . "

"Fine, " she said acidly. "When you fail to be witty in front of the plebeians, you embarrass yourself."

"That's not an 'I' statement."

"I feel another spanking coming on!"

Ron shook with laughter. "Say it's not happening," he gasped, holding his sides. "Tell me that I didn't just hear Malfoy giving lessons on communication techniques in the Muggle Studies tower. And to think that I didn't want to enroll in this class . . . "

"No one asked your opinion," Draco said loftily.

"Malfoy, you really need to get some new material," Hermione noted.

Pansy felt someone slide onto the bench next to her. Bracing herself for another onslaught, she turned to face her new neighbour. A familiar grin greeted her.

"You didn't think we'd honestly leave you alone to this sorry lot did you?"

"Blaise!" Pansy unexpectedly burst into tears and flung her arms around Blaise's neck, burying her face in the nape of her friend's woolly cloak. Blaise patted her back, waiting a moment before prying her from her shoulder. Determinedly she chucked Pansy under the chin.

"That's enough. Buck up now," she said, assuming a no-nonsense tone. Leaning in, she continued in a whisper, "Don't let them think you don't always have the upper hand -- especially here. And don't you dare let them see you cry."

Nodding, Pansy swiped discretely at her eyes. Briskly, Blaise waved her wand at Pansy's face.

"Refresco."

Immediately Pansy felt the stinging in her eyes and throat subside, and the blotchiness she knew must be covering her neck faded on the wing of Blaise's refreshment charm.

"Nice charm. Thanks," she said. Blaise waved her off.

"My mother taught it to me years ago. She's exceedingly vain, as you know," she smirked. "She knows tonnes of tricks."

Pansy gave a wan smile. "I guess I hadn't realised how stressful the prospect really was," she said quietly, "until I actually got here." She shot Draco a begrudging glance, but was soon distracted by the sound of another rucksack hitting the floor, then another.

"Millicent! Tracey!" Pansy beamed; Draco, atypically unguarded, was openly astonished.

Millicent had taken the seat next to Blaise and was patting the bench for Tracey Davis. Next, down the aisle, came Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, followed in short by Rowan Clive, and three third-year Slytherins Pansy knew only by sight. Fleetingly, she considered their motivations. Crabbe and Goyle wedged themselves into the seats next to Draco, who regarded them with cool approval. She met Crabbe's eyes and smiled, giving him a tiny nod; he winked, a smile playing at his usually sour face. Then came the greatest shock of all: Marcus Flint sauntered lazily down the aisle toward the Slytherins. He dropped his bad carelessly onto an empty seat, but did not yet take a seat. Crossing his arms, he surveyed the class. A viciously smug look crossed Pansy's face as she savoured the crestfallen Gryffindors.

Harry was aghast. "You're here?" he asked Flint, incredulous. "Still?"

Flint trained his cold, black eyes on Potter. "That's right," he said, smirking. "Although, technically, it's again rather than still. You might remember my last match Potter? After I woke up in hospital, I knew I would require extensive convalescence. It ended up being longer than I originally expected, what with my rotator cuff torn and all. Rough game, Quidditch."

"Bollocks," Ron rolled his eyes. "Aren't you glossing over the details just slightly?"

Rather than the victim of a glorious sports injury, Flint had been thoroughly trampled by an unknown Hippogriff after an impromptu Slytherin-Ravenclaw scrimmage match during the last week of term, two years prior. Hagrid insisted he knew nothing of the beast in question, and no claim could be fixed as to the creature's ownership. It had last been seen soaring away from Hogwarts in an easterly direction.

Many witnesses that day had claimed to see Hagrid's enormous boarhound upon the anonymous Hippogriff's back, thus indicating Hagrid's likely complicity in the matter. However, as much as she hadn't wanted to, Pansy grudgingly admitted to herself that she had definitely seen Fang secured to Hagrid's belt by a thick length of rope throughout the match's entirety, and during the celebration on the pitch afterward, as well. And, seeing as the entire school had turned out to enjoy the casual Quidditch match, she knew she couldn't be alone in her observations. Logically, whatever canine had been spotted on the Hippogriff, it couldn't have been Fang.

The unlucky Slytherin had been found behind the Quidditch shed, twisted vaguely into the shape of the letter "Z," or a pretzel, depending on who one got the story from.

"But- but, that was two years ago!" Harry blustered. "Are you sure all you did was tear your rotator cuff? Sounds like your brains were right scrambled as well."

"Who can say? I already knew I wanted one more year at Hogwarts even before I was injured, for extra Quidditch training before my professional try-outs. By that time I had already failed Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts…"

"Snape failed you?" Harry was incredulous. Flint shrugged.

"I told him about my plan. He didn't approve, of course, but it was my choice, not his. All right, so I didn't think I'd have to wait an extra year, but what can one do when in a coma? It's probably just as well, though, what with there being no Quidditch last year anyway."

"So what you're saying," Harry said evenly, mentally sorting through Flint's story, "is this is all about Quidditch?"

Flint regarded Harry if he were daft. "Of course."

"Quidditch?"

"I needed an extra year to hone my skills." Flint lamented, taking his seat. "I had it all planned out."

"Why would any professional organisation want a player like you?" Hermione asked him, appalled. "Someone who doesn't even work hard enough to get out of school in seven years! Honestly. Ten years?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Why do your kind give drunks money for a bag of their filthy Muggle blood? Everything has its niche," Flint said. "And don't be so naïve. Quidditch isn't about character -- it's about performance. If you win for your team, you could be Voldemort for all anyone cares."

"Please," Ron groaned, skipping over Flint's insult, "say You-Know-Who!"

"Well, that's an appalling attitude to take," Hermione said huffily. "Athletes need to consider their duty to society just like the rest of us. They're role-models after all!"

"If some kid wants to consider me a role-model, that's his problem," Flint retorted. "Not mine."

"You can't possibly represent what the Sorting Hat had in mind when it sang about ambition and cunning." Hermione shook her head in disbelief.

"Ambition comes in many forms," Draco smirked.

"There's a difference between being ambitious and outright cheating!"

"Anything worth having in the first place is worth cheating for," Flint said, smiling.

"Besides, Granger, you really should be pleased," Draco said, "Flint here is providing the perfect opportunity for you to start another social awareness campaign. Let's see . . . Quidditch Underachievers Enjoying Evil Role-modeling? Flint, what do you say?"

The older boy leered in approval.

"Or, there's Sucking-up Odious Do-gooders Offend Flying Flints . . . " With this, Draco stretched languidly in his seat and placed his elbow onto Hermione's desk, causing her books to slide from the slanted desktop in a dusty avalanche. Weasley and Potter knocked heads as they both attempted to catch Hermione's belongings. Pansy sniggered.

"I rather think the Slytherin Inbreds Causing Kaos group needs my immediate attention," Hermione said coolly, not losing a beat.

At the front of the class Professor Lupin cleared his throat. "Good Morning." He considered his charges. "Many of you I know from the year before last -- I see several familiar faces. I'll hand out the syllabus for this year's instruction in just a moment. Oh, and no need to break out your ink for this class. I'll be sending around pencils."

Pansy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She wasn't sure of what Professor Lupin was referring to. Remembering Blaise's admonishment, she refused to let her uncertainty show. Lupin was passing out the syllabus; Pansy took one and put it on her desk in front of her.

"As you know," Professor Lupin said, as he made his way down the aisle, "Muggle Studies is a course which incorporates both classroom lecture and a bi-monthly practical. The next sheet I'm handing out outlines the practical dates and topics."

Blaise leaned in to Pansy. "What is this? Look here, it says we'll be sleeping outdoors." She pointed to

Pansy was equally flummoxed. "Is that even legal? Here it says we'll be working without our wands!" she replied, under her breath.

Draco leaned in. "I suppose you've gone out with your mothers to do food shopping before? You'll be able to give me a leg up on this." He scrutinised his syllabus from arm's length, dangling the paper as if it were a soiled nappy.

"My mother doesn't shop for food," Pansy said, affronted by his assumption. "As if yours does?" The thought of the impeccable Narcissa Malfoy wielding a shopping trolley was beyond the scope of her imagination.

"Once," Blaise whispered conspiratorially, "My father purchased a sack of oranges."

Pansy's and Draco's eyes widened. "Ooh . . . really?"

"Truthfully, I think he had had too much to drink, although Mother denies it. But, he was being responsible, and wasn't flying home. He'd given his broom to Geoffrey at the Pick Your Poison club to look after, but somehow he became lost and ended up stumbling into Muggle London. Apparently, he found some Muggle selling fruit from a cart."

"Your father carries Muggle money?" Tracey Davis asked, fascinated.

"Never mind that," Draco waved the question down. "What about the oranges?" He leaned in expectantly, an interested expression shaping his face.

"My mother made him throw them out the kitchen door," Blaise whispered, her eyes darting furtively. "And, yes. My father says it's prudent to always carry a bit of Muggle money."

"So then what happened?" Pansy urged.

"Well," Blaise giggled, "we have an absolutely smashing orange tree right outside the kitchen! Mother won't let anyone eat the fruit from it, though. She says Daddy sullied the tree's essence by cultivating it from Muggle fruit. I think she gives the oranges to the House Elves."

"Oranges aren't native to Britain," Millicent pondered thoughtfully. "How ever did it propagate?"

Blaise shrugged. "I don't know."

Pansy examined her syllabus again. "Muggle Arts and Entertainment. We'll definitely have to go out amongst the Muggles for that." Sighing dramatically Pansy placed her paper onto her stack of books in front of her. Professor Lupin was again making his way through the rows of seats, this time holding a canister of thin, yellow sticks.

"Two pencils each," he said. Tracey quickly assessed the number of pencils needed for their row, and passed them down.

Pansy examined this new thing very carefully.

It was a narrow, yellow stick, pointed on one end and was clearly a writing instrument. At its point was a small, black nub. Capping its top was a reddish, oddly flexible, material. Holding it slightly aloft, Pansy dropped the pencil onto her desktop by way of the red end. It bounced back at her before falling and rolling from her desk. Beside her, Draco was also encouraging his pencil to perform. Being a sportsman by nature, he soon had his pencil bouncing up and down on his desktop, maintaining its position with his fingers.

Hermione observed the Slytherins bouncing their pencils on their desktops with her lip curling in disbelief. "No way! They've never seen pencils!?" she snorted, unable to suppress the amused smirk snaking across her face.

"Uh, right." Ron concurred, quickly fumbling with his own pencil, which he had also been bouncing on his desktop, and laying it flat in the groove at the top of his desk. On Hermione's other side Harry was laughing, twirling his pencil expertly between his fingers.

"Hey, Harry -- finally!" Ron whispered to Harry, "You've got a leg up on Malfoy right from the bat!"

"Yes. And what a complicated tool you've bested me with, Potter," Draco threw over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around.

Finally, Professor Lupin sent a stack of exercise books down each row, which were filled with blank sheets of thin, lined paper. Pansy surmised they were to be used with the pencils.

"Professor," she asked, "do you prefer we use these books for this class?"

"Yes, you will be using them, just as if you were in a Muggle School. I won't penalise you, should you prefer parchment and quill for your homework assignments, but I would prefer you to get a feel for the Muggle tools. When we go shopping in Kingussie, you might want to stop at Smith's for a pack of biros." The non-Muggleborn students looked completely lost, as he took a different kind of stick from his pocket, and twirled it. "I prefer them to pencils myself. Oh, and here's the pencil sharpener if you need it. You don't need to ask to use it -- there's no point in wasting time."

"Yes, what a terrible shame that would be," Draco muttered to Pansy, under his breath.

Lupin went over the syllabus with them, offering his comments.

"Our trip to Kingussie will commence on . . . " he checked his notes, "17th September. Now, your homework due on the 10th includes mapping out your most efficient route to town and purchasing your tickets for the trip. I have procured the necessary timetables for you to look over and use. Please come to my office later to collect your copies. They'll be yours to keep, as we'll need them throughout the year. And do remember, part of your practical marks will be figured from your ability to apply both your reasoning and navigational skills, so keep copious notes."

Lupin surveyed the group. "How many of you have never experienced the Muggle world, aside from Kings Cross?"

Her arm upstretched, Pansy glanced around the classroom. Aside from the usual Slytherin suspects, she noted Mandy Brocklehurst, Lavender Brown, and Ron Weasley from her year had also raised their hands, as well as a few others. She was surprised to see Millicent's hands folded on her desktop.

"Millicent?" Pansy asked, as Professor Lupin made notes regarding his students' Muggle experience, or lack thereof, "You've been into the Muggle world before?"

Millicent wasn't a bit fazed. "Sure. Lots of times."

"Why haven't you ever told us?"

"Really, Pansy! Think about it. My latest jaunt into Muggle London isn't exactly the first topic of conversation I'd want to introduce amongst the Slytherins."

"Hmm. You'll have to tell me about it, though."

"Sure, if you'd like. But, I'm not an expert or anything."

By the time Professor Lupin was done explaining all the necessary information for Muggle Studies and reviewing the syllabus, there was only ten minutes left of class. Kindly, he let them leave early.

"Oh, just a moment. I forgot to mention that I'd be assigning each of you a partner to work with. I don't have students next hour, so I'll arrange your pairings and owl them to you during the lunch hour. Until next time, then."

With five minutes remaining in the lunch hour, a great, swooping mass of school owls made their way through the Great Hall to deliver Professor Lupin's assignments to his students. Eagerly, they tore into their envelopes and read. Pansy let her hand fall to the table, her envelope still clutched in her fingers. Deftly, Draco nicked it from her and scanned its contents. A sour expression cased his face; sulkily, he threw it to the tabletop for all to see.

Horrified, Pansy turned to look at toward Gryffindor table. His own envelope in his hand, Harry Potter was regarding Pansy with surprised distaste. Quickly she turned back to her place with the Slytherins.

Blaise was laughing. "Let's see how long The Boy lives after spending a year with you."