Muggle Studies

A Dragon asks unspoken questions and will not tolerate
Attempts by any lesser beings to dodge or fluctuate.
Do not try to side step; he will recognize your dance.
Do not create deception, wisely, do not take the chance.
Make your answers straightforward, unerringly sincere,
For only honesty and candor will not offend his ear.
Once he descries your motives and deems them right and just,
You'll have earned a staunch supporter and a Dragon's trust.
So if ye dare, look deeply into Dragon's whirling eyes,
But believe ye that he knows who is truth-teller and who lies.

Honour Bound by S. Kneeland

Draco was angrier than any time he could remember.

He read Potter’s name on Pansy’s assignment letter, the final tenuous string holding his hatred in check snapped like an overextended violin string. Slowly he raised his eyes away from the scrap of parchment he had just thrown to the tabletop. Pansy’s eyes were wide with surprise and distaste. The sight of Potter’s face, stupidly agog with disbelief across the Great Hall, made him sick. His eyes narrowed to predatory grey slits, and he stood abruptly. The rest at the table stood as well; the Slytherins were exceptionally adept at guarding their house points.

“Malfoy,” the stern command came from the head of the table, “sit down. Handle whatever it is at a later time.” The imperiously smooth, seventh-year Slytherin prefect was already making his way down from the table’s head to face down his younger housemate.

“You needn’t concern yourself, Waldvogel.”

“I said,” Waldvogel said silkily, “to sit down.”

Draco remained where he was, watching. Potter, Weasley, and Granger were hurriedly gathering their things.

“Do it now, Malfoy, or it’ll be Slytherin points on your head. Do you really want to lose your prefect status?”

Draco gathered his rucksack, his eyes flat. “I’m finished anyhow.”

“I’ll walk you to the common room.”

“No need to,” he held the older prefect’s gaze, unwavering.

“Go, Malfoy.” Waldvogel fell in behind him.

Waldvogel saw Draco to the Slytherin common room and temporarily restricted him to a more private area so he might cool down. Now, half-hidden in the shadows of the dungeons --- which was certainly not his preferred locale --- he concentrated on summoning his early memories of Potter. If he willed it hard enough, he could practically conjure Potter's smell-- the smell of utter banality. It soothed him and reinforced his inherent superiority complex.

Draco accepted that people thought him jealous of Potter by rote—he did not care in the slightest. It was simpler this way. An impression of jealousy, he felt, was safer than one of hatred, and, truth told, Draco’s most unadulterated feelings toward Harry Potter were those of pure loathing. At eleven, when he had heard Harry Potter was on the train he had, of course, been curious. He had peeked into Potter’s compartment and had not made the connection between the legend and the boy he had made small talk with at Madame Malkin's. It was an unusual oversight, as he was always keenly aware.

Draco had always chatted very easily to people and his conversational skills had been honed from an early age. Narcissa loved to tell anyone who let her bend an ear of his precocity.

"Draco was born worried," his mother often said, affectionately, “And I do believe the main reason he talked so early was so he might share his vexed state with us.”

As well, Draco had always been exceptionally cunning and clever, and that was more than enough for most people to predict his future success. So, when Potter had civilly, but without question, rejected his overtures on the Hogwarts Express, he really could have had no way of knowing he had just issued an open declaration of war—at least in Draco’s estimation. It really wasn’t so much he had wanted Potter’s friendship; an alliance between the two would have been a more apt description of what he sought, being the shameless name-dropper that he was.

Quite simply, after the rejection, he had wanted to destroy Harry Potter. That he had not yet been successful at this was the source of Draco's greatest frustration. His mind was always working, always gathering information. He had discerned everything about Potter he felt he had needed to know within two brief minutes, two minutes which had set fate in motion and sealed their destiny as enemies.

As he had lounged casually in the doorway so many years ago and had gazed haughtily at Potter, he could read him like a book and his mouth had lifted with a vicious smirk. Draco knew.

He knew immediately that nobody in this boy’s life loved him. Potter had reeked of abandonment and neglect, and the realisation had been savagely satisfactory.

He's an unwanted, accidental circumstance, Draco had felt. How bloody brilliant. And thus his copious mental inventory of Harry Potter was underway. It had started with simple things really: Potter’s ugly tan corduroy trousers, which were clearly not adorning their original owner; His lank, button-down flannel shirt with a small patch sewn on the elbow—a bumblebee of all things; The clumpy bit of tape holding his glasses together --- this was something Draco had only read about in satire, in one of those campy Martin Miggs comics he had once nicked from Pansy’s bookshelf when they were children.

Potter’s jejune had offended him completely.

The other Slytherins were steadily returning from lunch. He observed as Pansy talked with her friends; she hadn’t yet seen him. Blaise obviously said something funny and Pansy threw her head back and laughed, and he enjoyed relishing her privately from his unseen spot in the corner.

That she would now be forced to condescend to day-to-day discourse with Harry Potter sickened him on many levels. He felt he was to blame-- if only he could have shaken the Quadratus a second earlier, neither of them would be reduced to mere folly for Hogwarts. If there was some kind of strategic advantage to this situation, he had yet to uncover what it might possibly be.

Deep in dark thought, he took out his wand and absentmindedly began twirling it through his fingers, issuing green bubbles, and then elegant streamers of satiny silver ribbons into the air in front of him. The soft ribbons looped lazily in the air before returning to the tip of Draco’s wand and threading in on themselves. This was a habit of his. When contemplative, or sometimes when he felt nervous, he was compelled to do simple, mindless wand work: Bubbles, ribbons, sparks, beams of light, feathers, showers of iridescent basilisk scales, intricate shadow portraits, scents of all kinds, and once, quite embarrassingly, a long skinny balloon, which had transfigured itself into a dachshund. He had popped it immediately with a quick jab from his wand, thankful no one else had seen his silly display. The fear of conjuring another balloon animal had kept him from compulsive wand work for several weeks; however, he had eventually lapsed back into his habit. The Slytherins had long ceased teasing him—at least openly-- over his idle quirk, although Madame Pince still became upset when one display too many floated from the musty rows of shelves.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she’d clip, openly irritated, “There are numerous rare and fragile books housed here; please do not subject them to further residues.”

“Ma’am.”

Finite Incantatum.

However, currently, Madame Pince was the furthest thing from his mind.

Pansy Parkinson. Harry Potter. Pansy Parkinson. Harry Potter.

Potter. . .

Opting against the more formal leather Chesterfields, the girls moved to the more comfortable couches on the east side of the double-sided fireplace to chat a bit before their next class began at two o’clock.

"I’ll ask Professor Lupin to switch my partner,” Pansy said glumly.

“He won’t change it. Besides, it could be worse. At least you weren’t paired with Weasley,” Blaise said.

Pansy had been so unnerved by her assignment she hadn’t even asked Blaise or Millicent who their partners were.

“So who are you two with?”

“Neville Longbottom,” said Blaise, finishing a sweet carrot she had brought from lunch. “I’m tempted to plant a big, juicy kiss on him, just to see him implode!”

“Oh, he’d like that,” said Millicent slyly.

“Neville’s not at all bad looking, really,” Blaise said slyly, “He’s just the kind of Gryffindor girls like us want desperately to corrupt --- all round-cheeked and stammering. But, I’m only joking, you goof!”

Pansy had never once given thought to Neville Longbottom’s aesthetic potential. “Millicent, who’re you with?”

“Ernie Macmillan.”

“And Draco’s with Susan Bones,” Blaise said. “She’s rather boring, but quite smart. Also, Hannah’s told me before that Susan’s extremely meticulous --- overly so maybe. Just imagine --- the both of them fighting over the details of their homework, each as pernickety as the other.”

“And speaking of which --- poor Hannah,” Millicent snickered, “she has to partner Goyle!”

“Never mind Goyle! Poor Crabbe—he’s with Granger!”

The girls giggled ferociously. More Slytherins were making themselves comfortable in the area and Pansy instantly recognized two girls as the third-years who were with them in Muggle Studies. Excusing herself, she made her way over.

“Hello, there. I just wanted to thank you girls for your support with the Muggle Studies thing,” Pansy said, smiling.

“Well, of course we’re happy to be supportive of a fellow Slytherin,” one said, standing, “although, truth told, we had registered for the class before we knew of Malfoy’s Scyllae. But might I say, that was one hell of a duel!” She offered her hand. “Mina Malkin-Blotts.”

“Pleasure,” Pansy said, shaking hands, “Pansy Parkinson. Blaise, Millicent? Come over for a minute.”

She offered her hand to the second girl, who had remained seated. “Pansy Parkinson.” The girl took Pansy’s proffered hand.

“Hello. Astrid Lestrange.”

“Hello, Astrid. My pleasure.” Pansy didn’t react to the infamous surname, although it was an occasional topic of conversation for any Slytherin. She knew who the other girl was. They all did.

“There were three of you,” Blaise said, thinking back, “Where’s the other girl?”

“Oh, Saorise? She’s probably studying. She’s a bookworm,” Astrid confided. “Next time she’s out, I’ll introduce you.”

"Good, good,” Pansy said.

“That could be several months, though,” Mina interjected with a flick of her eyebrows, “She’s exceptionally devoted to her studies.”

“So what’s your experience with Muggles, then?” Millicent asked.

“Well, I’ve not had much, really,” Mina replied, “I’ve stepped outside the Leaky Cauldron once or twice --- it was rather like sightseeing. My grandmother let me watch them for a few minutes and we threw crackers to the pigeons and watched the Muggles. My Grandmother thought it was rather avant-garde, but me? I thought the pigeons were more interesting.”

They all laughed.

“Well, I’ve always lived with my grandparents,” Astrid ventured carefully, avoiding more reference than necessary to her parentage. “Grandmère and Grandpère are quite liberal. They've taken me all over --— Muggle places and wizarding alike.”

“Oh, your grandparents are French, then?” Pansy inquired.

“Oui My father's side.”

“Oh, I do so love the French,” Pansy responded, “I’ve been to France numerous times myself.” Astrid Lestrange smiled gratefully at this approval. “Astrid, why did you not attend Beauxbatons?”

“Oh. Grandmère and Grandpère are in Britain. Well, they have been since 1980. Really, I’d rather be at Hogwarts.”

Mina clutched Astrid’s arm. “I hate to cut this short, but we really ought to get going. I need to stop by the library for that supplemental book for Herbology.”

“Herbology is my best and most favorite subject, by the way. And Blaise and Millicent here are at the top of Arithmancy,” Pansy offered.

“Better than Hermione Granger, even?”

“No one is better than Hermione Granger when it comes to marks,” said Millicent, smirking wryly. “We don’t even bother using her for comparison anymore. It’s definitely more satisfying to leave her out of the equation entirely.”

“I see what you mean,” Astrid said, “Personally, I find her rather pompous.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Blaise snorted, “Anyhow, Pansy’s right. Do come and find us if you ever need help in your subjects.”

“We will,” Astrid said, Mina nodding beside her, “It was quite nice meeting you --— all of you.”

“Likewise,” Millicent said.

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of each other now since we have Muggle Studies together,” Blaise said over her shoulder.

“Bye then,” Pansy said.

As the three girls made their way toward the stairs to the dormitories, a green bubble popped on the tip of Pansy’s nose. she waved Blaise along. “I’ll catch up with you,” she promised, following the trail of emerald bubbles toward the shadows.

“Draco?” There he was, in the corner. “What’re you doing tucked away over there? Are you sulking again?”

He was slouched deep into the wingback’s seat, his gangly legs stretched out in front of him.

“Pansy,” he said, his wand waving aimlessly, “I’m. . .distressed.”

“Whatever for?”

“I failed as a duelist, therefore you are forced to be within the same proximity as Potter --- regularly.”

She was stunned. “Are you. . .apologizing?” she asked, incredulous.

“No!” Draco dismissed the idea scornfully. A moment passed. “But, if only I had been a second earlier...”

It was the cover of shadow that allowed her to be so bold.

Dropping her rucksack she crawled onto his lap and sat in his lap, facing him. His wand emitted a burst of green sparks over their heads and they both laughed.

“You should really learn to control your wand…” she giggled.

For some time they sat there, chest-to-chest. With their fingers intertwined she rested her head on his shoulder and soon he was kissing her neck softly.

~*~

Astrid Lestrange happened to catch a brief glimpse of Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy sharing their affections as she left the dungeons for her afternoon classes. A poignant feeling immediately filled her before she could steel her heart against the intrusion. She would never allow anybody’s fluttering kisses on her throat, no matter the circumstances. Her reason for this abstruse boundary was closely guarded. She had become adept at shielding herself from her own grim reality, but despite her concerted efforts, Astrid’s subconscious occasionally rebelled.

Thanks again, Mum, she thought darkly, as she hurried after Mina and Saorise.

Finally, she sighed, Herbology.

Pansy and Padma had shamelessly used their status as Sprout’s star pupils to wile the professor into giving their group an alternate assignment than the rest of the class; subsequently, Pansy was treated to the amusing sight of Draco Malfoy wielding rose clippers. The four of them were harvesting gorgeous lavender blooms for the high table in the Great Hall and she gave him a bit of direction as they worked.

“Just there, Draco. You want to clip the bloom off under the furthest sprig of five leaves,” she pointed to the right spot, “And give it a bit of an angle when you cut. If you cut under the five-leaf groups then more roses will grow back. If you cut the stems haphazardly it confuses the rosebush, and it takes a longer time for new growth to form…”

“These roses are so beautiful,” Padma said, smelling one deeply, “I hope Professor Sprout will let me take some back to my room.”

“I’m sure she will. No, no, Terry,” Pansy said, “Under the five-leaf clusters.”

“Right. Got confused for a moment.” Terry’s dark head dipped as he returned to his work. Pansy and Padma discussed their plans for Sprout’s Community Garden.

“I was thinking we ought to have two main sections,” Padma explained. “One for vegetables and fruits, the other for flowers. What do you think?”

“I was thinking along the same lines, actually. Part of me wants to do a really brilliant, traditional English garden, but then the other part of me really wants to try for more exotics. There are a few flowers I have in mind that would be quite a challenge to propagate.”

“I can show you something exotic, Pansy,” Draco quipped, his blonde head buried amongst the leaves of Professor Sprout’s massive hybrid-teas. "Right after class. . ."

Padma giggled and Pansy’s mouth turned up at the corners.

“Anyhow,” she continued, amused, “my only sticking point would be that I absolutely refuse to cultivate red roses.”

“Why not?”

“They’re just so overrated. Really, is there any rose more popular than the red? I find them rather boring.”

"Note to self,” Draco’s voice came from somewhere amongst the rustling leaves, “No red roses for Pansy.”

“Well,” said Padma, thinking, “I suppose it is an idea to consider. We’d have to justify it to Professor Sprout, though. I have a feeling she has a regular apothecary garden in mind. Don’t you think so, too?”

"I’m sure if we just present it to her in the right way, she’d agree. Hmm. Let me think on it, all right?”

“You know,” Terry said, breaking in, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you might like another partner for this garden? I’ve been looking for a bit of extra credit, but something that wouldn’t squeeze my brain too hard.”

“Terry, that is really rather insulting,” Padma’s eyes flashed, “Clearly you have had little or no experience with a well-planned garden. It’s not easy work.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Terry explained, “it’s just that it’s less academic than Arithmancy or Runes. Say, Malfoy, speaking of which, aren’t you taking Arithmancy this year? I didn’t see you in class.”

“I had to choose between Arithmancy and Runes, because of the, er, other class,” Draco explained, now back at the table, a fresh crop of lavender roses in his arms. “I’ll be seeing you in Runes, though.”

“Terry, you’re welcome to help,” Pansy brought the conversation back around, thinking happily of all the manual labor she might avoid through his participation. “Oh, and that reminds me, Padma. I was also thinking it might be challenging --- and perhaps worth extra points --– to do this garden completely without magic.”

Padma’s eyebrows rose. “Really? That is a rather unexpected proposition.”

“Well, I admit I do have one other ulterior motive,” she explained, “Draco, would you bring two of those black tubs over, please? Fill them two-thirds full with water and do a quick sterilising charm on them. Thanks.” She turned back to Padma. “Anyhow, as you know, I’m taking Muggle Studies, and I was hoping I might somehow be able to make our garden work for both classes. What do you think, Padma? Come on, say you’ll agree.”

“I don’t know,” Padma responded reluctantly.

“Of course --- take your time and consider it. You know, I realise it would be the more difficult way to go, so don’t feel obligated if it’s something you just aren’t up to taking on.”

Subtly implying a Ravenclaw was not up to additional academic challenges was exactly the right approach.

“Perhaps you have a point,” Padma said immediately. “I mean, there has to be more to academia than regurgitating lines of text and repetitive wand-waving, right? All right, then, I’ll give it a go. Terry?”

“Sure.”

“Draco? What about you? Are you interested?” Pansy asked. He was carefully snapping thorns from the stems of the harvested roses; the black buckets he prepared were ready to receive their loads.

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not even a little.”

“But, you do so well with the flowers, Draco,” Padma said sweetly, motioning toward the growing pile of long-stemmed roses, “Why, these are some of the most well-prepared roses I have ever seen.”

“Really?” he eyed her warily.

“Yes, really.”

He wasn't fooled. “No,” he shook himself, pursing his lips in resolution.

“Please Draco, won’t you at least think about it?” Pansy asked, beguiling.

“Only because you let me kiss your neck after lunch.”

“If I let you kiss my neck after lunch, Malfoy,” Padma teased, “then will you agree?”

Pansy thought Terry, flushing scarlet, looked quite relieved to be able to duck under the table after his dropped clippers as Padma laughed. She lifted one of the long roses.

“Are these Lady X?” she asked.

“No, but close. Sterling Silver.”

“No wonder Draco’s doing so well with them, then!”

Professor Sprout bustled over to their group.

“When you’ve finished harvesting the roses, I’ll leave it to you to arrange them and deliver them to the Great Hall. Miss Patil, you know where the vases are kept. Mr. Malfoy, please tell me about Goldenrod.”

“Goldenrod, otherwise known as Solidago, is a perennial plant and is grown in zones 3a to 9a. It requires partial to full sun and is hearty in a variety of soils, although it prefers a more acidic Ph. The flowers come in a variety of shades of yellow. Goldenrod is known for its ability to flush water from the body, and is thought to have anti-inflammatory and anti-microbial properties.”

“And for what maladies would therapeutic Goldenrod be prescribed?”

“Several. Among them arthritis, colds and other viral infections, allergies, laryngitis, kidney stones, or bladder infections.”

“Allergies, Mr. Malfoy? Are you quite sure about that? Many suspect Goldenrod as the root cause of some forms of allergic rhinitis.”

“Yes ma’am; however, it’s usually ragweed that is the culprit, as it is almost always found within close proximity to Goldenrod.”

“Topical applications?”

“Goldenrod is used by some for topical treatment of the skin disorder known as eczema.”

“Excellent, Mr. Malfoy! Seven points to Slytherin.” Professor Sprout loved odd numbers.

“Thank you, Professor.”

Professor Sprout caught sight of Terry. “Mr. Boot. The medicinal properties of blue cohosh, if you please.”

Padma returned with ten vases on a rolling cart.

“Let’s get these roses done. You were doing it right—just snap off the thorns and strip the leaves. Did you remember the sterilising charm?” Pansy asked Draco.

“I did.”

“All right, then. When you’ve finished stripping the stems put them a couple inches under the water, like so,” she demonstrated, cutting another inch off the stem while it was immersed in the bucket. Several tiny bubbles rose from the fresh cut. She then dropped the rose all the way into the bucket to await its arrangement. Silently, the four worked with the buckets of roses for nearly ten minutes.

“I wonder why there are no green roses?” Draco asked, “Or black for that matter.”

“There is a green rose of sorts, actually,” Pansy said, “It’s really ugly, though. It’s called Rosa Chinensis Viridiflora; it’s little than a chance mutation.” She pulled out her wand and quickly mocked up an image of the shaggy green rose. “It doesn’t make petals, see? Just sepals. It’s as if the evolution of the plant forgot about the flower and focused on the sepals instead.”

Draco regarded the conjured image hanging between him and Pansy.

“That is ugly.”

“And I’d really rather not see a black rose. It would be depressing, don’t you think? There are black pansies, though.”

“Really,” Draco regarded her. “And are they ugly, too?”

“No,” she gave him a hard look, “they’re like black velvet. Very elegant.”

“I hadn’t given much thought to pansies before.”

“Mmm. Even recently?”

“Oh, I’ve given them a thought or two recently.”

“Did you know that pansies are the cross between two varieties of wild violet? Pansies are essential for many love potions and spells, and mix wildly with water. In fact, British lore would tell us that picking a pansy on a sunny day makes for rain.”

“Really,” he said, looking intently at her, “Anything else?”

Padma took quick advantage of his rapt attention elsewhere and quickly charmed each vase to hold an ornate pink card, which read: “These roses arranged especially for your enjoyment by Draco Malfoy.”

“There’s definitely one more thing you should know about pansies, Draco,” she smiled cheekily, and then fixed her most innocent gaze on him. “Pansies are edible. Although, they are only slightly sweet.”

Severus Snape sat behind his desk massaging his temples, mentally castigating himself for granting Lucius Malfoy an impromptu audience. He had been caught off guard. As he and Dumbledore had feared, Lucius was livid at the news of Draco’s Scyllae Messorius obligation.

“Snape, you will intervene,” Lucius commanded, “or I might be forced to halt my endowments.” Narcissa Malfoy sat quietly next to her husband.

Snape sighed, frustrated. “I cannot intervene. Draco is bound by the Scyllae Messorius.”

Malfoy’s chin rose imperiously.

“I’m sure you’ll understand, Severus, that having Draco in Muggle Studies would be rather…embarrassing to explain…to some of my associates.”

“Yes,” Snape said, playing the game, “however, Muggle Studies really is an antiquated class. It’s little more than Binns, just with Muggle facts.”

“Which instructor handles the course?”

“I don’t know,” Snape lied. “The post was unexpectedly vacated right before the term started.” The last part was true.

“I like to know who all of Draco’s instructors are,” Narcissa said, finally joining in the conversation.

“I shall let you know.”

Narcissa turned to Lucius. “I’ve been thinking, Lucius. Surely it wouldn’t reflect poorly on Draco, for him to be taking a silly class on Muggle Studies. Professor Snape here seems to believe it an innocuous affair. Frankly, I don’t see the harm. Distasteful? Yes. But really, it would be little more than a lark. Surely you remember your stint in that figure-drawing class while we were here?”

“That,” Lucius said silkily, eyeing his wife, “was entirely different. MacNair dared me.”

“So, you find a schoolboy’s dare to be a more worthy obligation than the Scyllae Messorium?” Narcissa asked pointedly, her delicate eyebrows arching. “Frankly, I think you’re being rather ridiculous. Draco will be none the worse for the wear. Muggles aren’t particularly complex; surely there would be no risk for unwanted political groundwork being laid.”

Lucius pondered this. Snape began to breathe more easily, secretly grateful for Narcissa’s common sense.

“I am rather disappointed in his loss,” Malfoy said.

Ah, thought Snape, the crux of the matter. “It was very close. Very. Draco is a formidable duelist. You would have appreciated his performance,” he offered, as close as he would come to placating.

“Severus,” Narcissa asked, suddenly intrigued, “Do you have a Pensieve? Might we see Draco’s performance for ourselves?”

“Let me ask the Headmaster. Mine’s been acting up lately—it’s been showing my memories in reverse…and playing strange background music.”

“A soundtrack?” Narcissa inquired, “Why, how very droll.”

“Narcissa, you would find my Pensieve to be less droll than noisome.”

“Noisome? How could music possibly be noisome?”

“It’s not the music that is offensive per se, but it also seems to have developed a penchant for scents. It’s been emitting the smell of rotting garbage.”

“Oh my. That would, indeed, be off-putting,” Narcissa Malfoy’s brows furrowed in commiseration.

"For God’s sake, get on with it Snape,” Lucius Malfoy snapped with an impatient flick of his hand. Snape rose from his desk and made his way to the fireplace and called on Dumbledore with a flash of Floo powder. The Headmaster’s head appeared immediately.

"Yes, Severus?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy are here, wishing to speak with you about the duel. They’re requesting an audience with your Pensieve.”

“Lucius, Narcissa,” Dumbledore greeted the Malfoys most cordially. “I am, of course, happy to oblige. Do come to my office.”

Herbology was their last class of the day and Draco and Pansy stayed later than usual in the greenhouse at Professor Sprout’s request, helping to put the class supplies away.

“I have a bushel of fresh Wolfsbane for Professor Snape,” Sprout had said, as she headed from the greenhouse, “Won’t you two tidy up for me and close down the greenhouse for the night?”

In due time Greenhouse Three was as clean and neat as possible. As Pansy drew her wand to lower the overhead lights to their nighttime levels, Draco waylaid her.

“You know, all this gardening has made me rather hungry,” he said, his eyes shining, “and I find myself fancying a pansy, I do believe.”He kissed her. “Mmm. Yes, slightly sweet…” She smiled under his mouth. Neither of them heard the door.

“Draco?” Something clunked onto the floor. Then, after a moment, “Pansy?”

They flew apart. Wheeling about, eyes wide with guilty surprise, they faced Narcissa Malfoy.

“Mother?” Draco was stunned. “What are you doing here?”

Narcissa Malfoy stooped to reclaim her dropped handbag from the greenhouse floor, her eyes never leaving them. Her purse clutched in her hand, Draco’s mother surveyed the darkened greenhouse suspiciously before fixing her gaze on them.

“What is going on?”

Pansy’s emotional pendulum swung full force and she suppressed the inane urge to cackle.

“Er…” The whites of his eyes were dramatically prominent in the waning light of the day. Finally, he moved forward, managing to gather some semblance of composure. “Mother, it’s nice to see you. What a surprise.”

Narcissa accepted a kiss in greeting, but her suspicious gaze didn’t alter. “Indeed, it must be,” she clipped.

The greenhouse door banged again. Pansy closed her eyes. She knew full well if Narcissa Malfoy was currently standing in front of her, it was highly unlikely she was unaccompanied.

“Draco,” the cold voice drawled, within seconds; Pansy’s spine convulsed and she forced her eyes back open.

“Hello, Mrs. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy,” she said weakly.

“We ran into Professor Sprout in the entrance hall. She told us you were here, Draco,” Narcissa said coolly, turning to her husband. “Lucius, Draco and Pansy appear to be…involved.”

“Involved?”

“Yes,” Narcissa gave her husband a pointed stare, “involved.”

Pansy’s face flamed like a sanguinated beet and she wanted nothing more than to flee right through the glass walls of the greenhouse in shame. Draco took a step toward her and took her hand.

“Oh honestly, Mother. Who would be better?”

Pansy loved him for this simple defense.

Draco continued, “Hello, Father. Will you be staying for dinner? Say you will be.”

She couldn’t help but notice Lucius Malfoy looked rather pleased at his son’s aplomb.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said, after a moment, “I’m otherwise engaged.”

Draco turned to his mother. “Mother, are you busy as well?” he asked politely.

“I could stay if you’d like,” Narcissa’s eyes softened just slightly at her son’s gentle persistence. “Your father has a meeting tonight, but I wasn’t planning anything special—just a bit of light reading.”

“It would be nice to have you,” Pansy lied, with her very sweetest smile. Narcissa’s mouth turned up at the corner slightly.

“All right. Then, stay I shall,” she said briskly, “Lucius, do say you won’t mind?”

Lucius Malfoy waved his hand in deference. “Stay.”

“Shall we return to the castle then?” Draco suggested, still clutching her hand.

“Yes, a good suggestion. Apparently,” Lucius Malfoy’s cool grey eyes swept over them both, “we have several things to discuss.”

Draco cringed inwardly. The duel, he thought, and. . .The Talk. Ugh. He supposed it was inevitable --- his parents couldn’t keep surreptitiously slipping silly educational books into his bookcase at home forever. Resigned, he offered his free arm to his mother and together they made their way from the greenhouse, Lucius leading regally.

Pansy overheard Narcissa whispering to her son.

“You know, dear, your father kissed me-- more than once --- in this very greenhouse.” Narcissa’s voice had taken on a slightly nostalgic air; she turned to regard Pansy. Although Narcissa’s gaze was not exactly maternal, Pansy could discern no hint of malevolence and tentatively took this as a sign of a mother’s cursory acceptance of her son’s first romance. She felt slightly less scrutinized.

She absolutely should not have let her guard down.

Naturally, the senior Malfoys preferred the formal leather Chesterfields to the more comfortable areas of the Slytherin common room. Pansy and Draco sat stiffly across from Narcissa and Lucius, white-knuckled, hands clasped in their laps, their backs rigid-- waiting for the axe to fall.

“So,” Lucius finally began, “So. A duel.”

“Yes, Father, a duel.”

“Your mother and I were able to review your performance in Dumbledore’s Pensieve.”

Draco worked at maintaining a neutral façade as he nodded.

“Miss Parkinson,” Lucius drawled, training his cold eyes on her, “Quite a show. Tell me, where did you learn the Penitus Flamma?”

“From you, actually.”

"I beg your pardon?”

“At my parent’s summer party two years back. You demonstrated it for…some people,” Pansy said truthfully. “Draco, Blaise and I were watching from the back balcony—you remember, don’t you Draco?” Draco nodded next to her, “It seemed a useful spell to remember. You never know when you might find yourself in a pinch.”

Lucius Malfoy’s lips lifted slightly.

“Resourceful girl,” he said coolly before returning to his son.

“I plan on working with you on your dueling skills, Draco. There is absolutely no reason you should find yourself sidelined by a spell as simple as the Quadratus. No reason at all."

Draco didn’t let his face fall; again, he nodded.

“However,” Lucius Malfoy continued, “I do concede Professor Snape’s point in that it was, indeed, a very close duel. Your choice of the Sleeping Death curse was particularly well-executed.”

Draco savoured the compliment. "Yes."

Lucius leaned forward. “Discretion, son, seems to be an uphill battle for you still.”

"Yes."

“You will continue to work on this issue.”

“I shall.”

“Now,” Lucius continued with his pre-set agenda briskly, “Are you two dating?” Pansy and Draco looked at one another, and then back at the Malfoys. They had certainly not established any formalities regarding their relationship.

“Er. . ” Draco glanced at Pansy again, looking for direction. Mortified, she shrugged helplessly and directed her gaze to the ornate carpet of the common room. “Yes? Er. . .that is if Pansy. . .Yes?”

“So, I expect you are taking all the necessary precautions?” Lucius asked, with a pointed look.

“Precautions?” Draco was confused.

“Yes, son. Precautions,” Lucius stared pointedly at his son; finally a flush began to spread across the younger Malfoy’s face. If the current circumstances had involved anyone else, Draco would have laughed ferociously at their expense. As it was, he was giving genuine consideration to testing the Apparation wards.

Pansy buried her head in the folds of his cloak, angry tears filling her eyes. She couldn’t imagine a more insulting implication.

“Father, please don’t talk like that in front of Pansy,” Draco pleaded quietly, turning to his mother for help, silently willing her interference. Narcissa shrugged.

“Nonsense! Why ever not? I may be a fairly reserved man under normal circumstances,” Draco snorted audibly at this suggestion. Ignoring his son’s impudence, Lucius continued unfazed, “but I’m warning you both now that I absolutely will not tolerate smarmy accidents of the heart. Let there be no question on my position. If you’re old enough for sex, you’re certainly old enough to discuss contraception charms and potions.”

“Father!”

Pansy bolted from the common room.

Tearing madly up the stairs she flew through her shared bedchamber and flung herself face down onto her bed, sobbing. Blaise and Millicent were instantly at her side.

“Pansy?” Blaise hurried after her, “Whatever is the matter?”

“Tell us what it is,” Millicent said quietly, laying a hand to her back.

The horrible story spilled forth. She had almost finished when a knock came at the door. Narcissa Malfoy poked her head into the girls’ room. At the sight of Draco’s mother, Pansy buried her face in her feather pillow. Mrs. Malfoy crossed the room confidently.

“There, there, Pansy,” Narcissa soothed, “I do apologize for my husband’s bluntness. Girls, would you mind if I spoke to her privately?”

Blaise and Millicent, albeit curious, obligingly left the room. Pansy could visualise them streaking down the stairs and through the common room for drinking glasses to hold against the door, as they had not had time to grab their wands on their way out. It was a good thing she hadn't shared with them about the Weasley twins' Extendable Ears yet --- Padma had mentioned them in Herbology today. She was fairly certain she was going to want this conversation to remain private.

“You must understand our surprise,” Narcissa continued after the door had clicked shut. “Perhaps it’s gotten better of our sense at the moment. But nonetheless, Lucius and I only want what is best for Draco --- and for you, too. You know, Lucius and I also began dating during our fifth year. I never dated anyone else…”

Cattily, Pansy couldn’t help but silently wonder why not.

Narcissa put her beautifully manicured hand on Pansy’s back in an affectionate manner, pausing to think.

“May I speak bluntly?” Narcissa asked.

“You haven’t already?” she retorted, glaring. Narcissa gave her a look, but continued.

“You know how much I adore your mother --- your entire family --- and I can think of no girl more appropriate for my son than you. I have always cared very much for you. Of course, Lucius and I love Draco very much. He’s our only child. Perhaps in his haste to protect Draco's long-term interests Lucius spoke too openly.”

Pansy’s head snapped upward. “I’ve never…been with anyone, just so you know,” she said, fiercely angry, “and I don’t appreciate the insinuation. I’ve never even kissed anyone before Draco, and that was just this past week! I’m hardly planning on…on…God!”

Narcissa took Pansy’s anger in stride. “I’m sorry. He really meant no accusation. Men just tend to think more pragmatically about these things, thus, Lucius’ brusqueness just now. Promise me --- promise Lucius and I --- that you will always look out for your best interests. That both of you will. That you won’t be rash.”

“I -- we won’t be rash,” Pansy parroted back in what she hoped was a convincing tone as she secretly crossed her fingers underneath her pillow.

“Good girl,” Narcissa stood, brushing out her elegant robes, “Now I expect you’ll be wanting a nice sulk before dinner?” Draco’s mother’s eyes sparkled cheekily as she crossed the room. “I heartily encourage you to do so, so when you come down for dinner we’ll have put this all behind us.”

Narcissa paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Both you and Draco are such special young people. I know neither of you would ever want to do anything inappropriate.”

Clearly Narcissa had not seen fifteen in a very long time, for Pansy wanted to do very inappropriate things, indeed. Very.

The sleeping dragon had stirred and she felt no particular desire to damper its flames.

The Muggle Studies trip to Kingussie approached. A week prior, the Slytherins made their way to the Hogsmeade station to purchase their train tickets. Millicent had purchased Muggle train tickets twice before --- Pansy found out that she had actually snuck into Muggle London by herself, as she fancied their wide variety of art museums --- and she guided her fellow housemates in learning the natures of timetables and schedules. In Hogsmeade the group stopped first at the small Gringotts branch to exchange their currency. Emerging unscathed from this experience, they proceeded to the small train station and waited in the queue for their turn with the ticket master. Pansy’s small purse felt very lightweight, it’s usual heaviness having been replaced by paper Muggle currency and only a bit of coin. When it was her turn she stepped up to the ticket window.

“What can I help you with?” The ticket master asked pleasantly.

“Yes sir, I need to purchase one round-trip ticket to Kingussie and back.”

“You’re aware the Muggle trains don’t actually stop here in Hogsmeade? The wards won’t allow it. You’ll first need to hop the Hogsmeade Express down to Inverdruie; there’s a portal that will let you into the Muggle part of the station—one each for males and females, as it lets out into the loo. From there you can proceed to Kingussie.”

“All right, then.”

“Are you traveling with your friends there?” the ticket master inquired. Pansy nodded. “And are you all sixteen?”

“No, sir. Just fifteen.”

“A shame. I could have offered you a group discount for three adults traveling together --- well, let me tell you for next year,” the man continued rapidly, “Group discounts are valid for travel Monday through Friday after 0915 hours. Passengers may not join at Glasgow Queen Street, Edinburgh or Haymarket. All group members must travel together in both directions. Reservations are not required. Railcard discounts do not apply. Normal refund arrangements apply.”

“Er…”

“That’ll be Seventeen pounds, sixty-six.” He stamped her tickets efficiently.

“Yes, sir, thank you.” Carefully, Pansy counted off eighteen Muggle pounds for the man and received her tickets and change. Securing them in her purse, she waited for her two friends to complete their turns at the ticket counter.

"Well, that wasn’t so bad!” Blaise said cheerily as they joined up again. “Fancy a little shopping?”

Professor Lupin personally inspected each of his students’ tickets and made notes. Then, seating himself on top of his desk, he outlined the practical.

“Our goals are three: First, to successfully navigate to Kingussie and back on Saturday the 17th. Second, you and your partner are to plan a meal, and in Kingussie you will purchase all the necessary ingredients for your chosen meal. You may not use magic to prepare your meal—did I mention you would be preparing your own meals on Sunday evening? Well, you shall be. I’ve made arrangements with the house elves for use of one of the smaller kitchens. And you may not purchase heat-and-serve, pre-packaged meals.”

Pansy was a bit miffed at the idea. Sunday dinner at Hogwarts was always her favorite.

She’d never cooked a thing in her life. Well, no matter really. She supposed she could head down to the main kitchen for leftovers if she became hungry later on-- she’d done it before.

“Also, remember to pick up a pack of Biros while you’re out on the town. The name of the grocery store, again, is Smiths. As well, please do not bring more than twenty Muggle pounds spending money. Your budget for your meal will be an additional ten pounds, so thirty pounds total. This rule holds fast for everyone,” Lupin’s eyes fixed on the Slytherins.

Blaise was openly crestfallen and Pansy could tell she was already conspiring how she might get around this limitation.

“I have a few more notes I need to organize—it’ll take me but a minute. While I do that, please arrange a time with your partner to meet so you can decide on your menus.”

There was a mass scraping of benches against the stone floor as the students reorganized themselves throughout the classroom.

Susan Bones marched up to Draco. “Hello there, Draco,” she said, “Looks as if we’ll be partners. I have an absolute plethora of ideas…”

“Hello, Susan,” he answered evenly, watching Harry Potter like a hawk, “go ahead and tell me what you’ve come up with.”

Pansy and Harry stared at one another. Finally, taking the initiative, she stood abruptly and wove through the maze of desks and benches, and sat down next to Harry Potter.

“Potter.”

“Pansy.”

Harry Potter was still rather slightly built, although he was taller than she. His dark hair was impeccably messy, as if he actually meant it to look the way it did. He had new glasses this year and the frames were much more attractive than the clunky, black, taped ones he had worn in years past. His face was rather pleasant, but he was certainly nothing that would cause anyone to do a double take.

Were Gryffindors required to smell of soap? How blasé. Draco smells of…so many things…

“Well,” she clipped, “I expect we ought to arrange a meeting, then. What’s your schedule for the rest of the day?”

“After classes I have Quidditch practice, and then it’s dinner. But I’m…I’m fairly caught up with my homework. I could meet with you in the library tonight.”

“Fine. Eight o’clock?”

“All right.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

At promptly eight o’clock, Harry Potter dropped into the chair across the table from Pansy at the library.

Without saying a word, she spread her Muggle Studies materials across the table. Crossing her legs, Pansy balanced her composition book on her thigh and poised her pencil.

“Menu preference?”

“Nope. You?”

“Umm…Thai chicken salad?”

“I’m allergic to peanuts.”

She laughed out loud.

“You think my allergy to peanuts is funny?” he asked.

“You defeat Voldemort, but you can’t eat peanuts? Oh, that is just so rich!”

"Yeah,” Harry quipped dryly, “Hilarious.”

“Say You-Know-Who!” A furtive whisper came from somewhere amongst the shelves behind the table which Harry and Pansy were occupying. Pansy turned and caught a flash of ginger through the stacks.

“Oh, stop eavesdropping, Weasley, you git,” she snapped, turning back to Harry. “I’m rather surprised you even know what constitutes Thai ingredients.”

“Why’s that?” he was slightly amused.

“You just don’t seem the type to know about cuisine.”

“Oh,” Harry considered her. “I see. Well, in that case I suppose my suggestion of crème de noix de coco, saumon cru à la mousse d'avocat, and gâteau au chocolat fondant would seem rather out of character to you, then?”

“Quite.” She didn’t miss a beat. “Anyway, I don’t care for raw fish. Not at all.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth turned up slightly. “Do you even know how to cook, Pansy?”

“Don't be silly. Of course not.”

I can cook.”

“Woo. Voldemort’s keeper, plus chips on the side. I’d say that’s right practical of you.”

She felt the need to keep him on his toes. Something about this boy made her want to…pounce.

“Er…”

“Er…” she mocked cattily. “Why do you always have such a problem talking? It seems like all I ever hear you say is ‘er’.” Harry flushed slightly and averted his eyes, swallowing uncomfortably.

Susan and Draco walked by on their way to a different table. Susan was wise enough to not even suggest sharing the same table as Harry and Pansy. Draco threw her a quick glance as he brushed by the table; it warmed her to see him.

“Well, chicken and sauce is easy enough,” Harry offered, once Draco and Susan had passed. “And maybe a salad on the side? Since you suggested a salad first, that is.”

"Fine.”

“All right. Fine.”

“So what will we need to have in order to make this meal?” Again, she poised her pencil.

“Chicken breasts,” At least he didn’t implode from having to say the word ‘breasts’ out loud, she thought, scribbling in her composition book as he continued, “and a sauce mix, I suppose. Oh, and lettuce for the salad, too. Iceberg or Cos?

“Butter.”

“Okay, whatever. Do you like onions, then?”

“No. I’d rather not retain the smell.”

“My uncle likes onions in his salad. Me too. Of course, he doesn’t smell very nice. Uh, anyhow, we’ll need croutons I guess, and what about olives?”

“Fine.”

“Black or green?”

"Vermouth.”

“What?” he gave her a quizzical look.

"Vermouth olives. They’re my favorite.” At his blank expression, she rolled her eyes. “They’re soaked in Vermouth. They’re martini olives, Potter.”

He seemed rather scandalised. “I don’t think alcoholic olives are a good idea, Pansy.”

“Why not? My parents let me have them.” Harry stared at her warily with his bright green eyes until she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “I mean just as a treat. Just one or two…occasionally.”

“I really don’t think my parents would approve of me eating martini olives with a Slytherin.”

“Well, your parents really aren’t in the best position to judge now, are they?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed and he looked away. She could see his jaw working as he registered what she said. He definitely wasn’t at all like the people Pansy was used to speaking with. He clearly didn’t mind wearing at least a bit of his heart on his sleeve and she was used to more of an iron façade on the parts of the recipients of her pointed comments. She was used to a more derisive, sardonic way of socialising, and his obvious sensitivity made her completely uncomfortable. Finally, he opened his mouth to respond and Pansy braced herself.

“How about some rice to go with the chicken?” he asked mildly.

Bloody Gryffindor. “Fine. And some capers for the salad.”

"I’ve never had those. What are they?”

“I’m putting them down. You’ll like them,” Pansy said, continuing to write.

“What if I don’t like them, though?”

"Then pick them out.”

“So let me get this straight. I like onions in my salad; you don’t like onions in your salad. You refuse to pick the onions out. But I have to pick out…whatever those things are…while you just get to opt for no onions at all?”

“That’s right.”

"And would you make Malfoy pick things out of his salad?”

“Malfoy wouldn’t insist on subjecting me to onions in the first place. He had manners, Potter.”

"Oh, yeah. Stellar ones at that," Harry's lip curled, and he shook his head in disbelief. "Pansy, you’re such a snob.”

“Well, Potter, kiss my tiara if that’s the way you feel about it, and get on with it,” she said, fixing her flattest gaze on him, “I haven’t got all night to sit around here, letting you admire me.”

He shook his head again.

Lurking in the shelves, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger looked at one another incredulously, and then back to Harry.

“Here,” Pansy held out a copy of the shopping list to Potter; their fingers brushed slightly as he took it from her. Quickly gathering her belongings, Pansy stuffed her bag sloppily, wanting to flee his presence as soon as possible. Her fingers tingled.

“Well, goodbye,” she said stiffly, and left.

“Bye.”

I just touched a Gryffindor.

I just touched a Slytherin. Shuddering, Harry took a moment to pay massive amounts of mental homage to the Sorting Hat for its pro-choice stance regarding the Houses as he went to collect Ron and Hermione from amongst the stacks.

“Harry,” Hermione said breathlessly, clutching at his arm, “I didn’t know you spoke French!” Her eyes glowed luminously with admiration.

“Huh?”

“French, Harry! I heard what you said to Pansy…Coconut soup, raw salmon with avocado…”

“Er…what? Oh, that. No. It’s just something I picked up from Aunt Petunia’s soaps.”

"That’s quite a mouthful to just ‘pick up’,” she commented.

“Well, Petunia has certain episodes she watches over and over. She has them on tape. I’ve heard that French menu a thousand times.”

“Oh,” Hermione looked a bit crestfallen at the sudden loss of Harry’s continental status. “Well, Pansy needn’t know.”

“Who cares what Pansy Parkinson knows about Harry?” Ron interjected.

As they chatted amiably on their way back to Gryffindor Tower, something occurred to Harry.

Huh, he thought, as he walked along, she used Voldemort, instead of ‘You-know-who.’ Twice. That’s rather…brave. Harry shook the thought away. She’s probably just insufferably brazen and doesn’t fear throwing around her Dark Lord’s name…He snorted. Undoubtedly, it was the latter.

On Saturday, 17^th September, Professor Lupin’s Muggle Studies class met in the castle’s entrance hall for the short walk to Hogsmeade from which they would embark on their first practical of the term. The students were dressed casually, and were without their school robes. Pansy felt strange without them, but her discomfort was soon put, as she realized she was now able to freely ogle Draco’s backside. Professor Lupin had to send Ernie Macmillan back to the Hufflepuff dormitories to change, as he had appeared fully regaled in Muggle plus fours, and a tammy with a pom-pom

“I’m sorry, Mr. Macmillan, but I don’t believe there will be time for golf,” Lupin said, smiling.

“My uncle loaned them to me,” he shrugged, turning to trudge back to his room.

“Mr. Finch-Fletchley,” Lupin ordered, “Please see that Mr. Macmillan is properly attired.” Justin scuttled after his housemate.

The walk to Hogsmeade Station was nice, although the air was a bit brisk. As promised, there were two portals leading from tiny shacks along the Hogsmeade line, which lead into the Inverdruie station. The one Muggle woman washing at the basin barely batted an eye as six girls tumbled from the last toilet stall in the room, the metal door banging solidly against the tile wall of the bathroom as they fell out. They regrouped at the platform and prepared to board the Muggle train to Kingussie.

“Find your partners,” Lupin directed, consulting his schedule. He handed each student a slip of numbers. “This is a telephone number for the Scot House—it’s a small hotel on Newtonmore Road, and I’ll be staying there today, grading papers and reading.”

“You’re…you won’t be coming with us?” Blaise asked warily.

“No, Miss Zabini. You’ll find Kingussie is a small enough town to navigate quite easily. I’m perfectly confident in your ability to do this successfully. All of you.”

The professor led the group over to a red, rectangular box with a folding door. “This is the telephone,” he explained discretely. “Simply deposit your coin here and dial the number you wish to call by pushing these buttons. Speak into the receiver normally—you do not need to raise your voice.”

Pansy scribbled these brief directions on the back of the slip of paper Lupin had passed out with the number to the Scot House, repeating them under her breath to commit them to memory.

“Should you need to call me, please ask for me politely by name: Remus Lupin. I will be in the lounge area of the Scot House. At exactly 4:30 pm I shall leave to walk to meet the train, so obviously I would not be reachable by phone during that time. If you and your partner are not particularly acquainted you can use the train ride as an opportunity to get to know one another better. In fact, I’ve brought something to help you out in that regard. Please fill these out for your partner; I will be collecting them in class next week.”

Lupin passed out one last piece of paper.

“And, finally, your wands, please.”

He collected the class's wands and placed them in his satchel. Then, lazily, he pointed his own wand at Crabbe and Goyle.

“Accio wands!” Crabbe and Goyle’s wands discretely flew the short distance from their owners’ pockets to the Professor’s hand. “And five points each from Slytherin, boys,” he said, flicking his eyebrow.

Pansy and Harry regarded one another from opposite ends of the compartment as their train barreled down the track. Draco and Susan were in the compartment next door, and Goyle and Granger were exchanging insults further down the aisle. Harry stood and shut the compartment door.

“I really don’t need to hear Hermione and Goyle arguing. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mmm,” Pansy said noncommittally, opening her copy of Teen Witch Weekly. She held the magazine up so it obstructed her face.

“You have Muggle clothes on,” Harry noted.

“You'd know. You’re the Muggle expert.”

“I suppose,” he shrugged. “Lupin gave me this questionnaire for us to do…”

Pansy lowered her magazine slightly and peeked over the top. “What questionnaire? What are you talking about?”

He shook out a paper and held it at arms length.

“It’s for class. Here, look,” he showed it to her, “It’s a ‘Getting to Know You’ quiz. Watch --- I’ll start. What’s your full name?”

“How dare you!”

“Pansy,” Harry placated, “it’s only a few questions, really.”

She eyed him warily. “Pansy Parkinson,” she said after a moment.

“Middle name?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Why not?”

“To retain some semblance of mystery.”

“Oh, trust me --- there’s no question about that. When’s your birthday, then?”

“Why?”

“Gods, are you always this difficult?” he glared, frustrated. “I would really like to complete my assignments for this class.”

“Next question,” she said.

“Favorite colour?”

“Pink. Light pink. Not a tacky, pastel pink, mind you --- just a nice, muted light pink. It has to have warm undertones.”

“Light pink. . .” Harry scrawled along the page, “And do you have any hobbies?”

“Well. . .I garden, I sing,” Pansy said, laying her magazine aside with practiced reluctance, “and I love to read, and I fly.”

“You fly?” Harry dropped the questionnaire to his lap and looked up, intrigued.

“Mmm hmm. I do.”

“Why haven’t you tried out for your house team then?”

“Because team sports are for boys.”

“Team sports are not just for boys. Look at Katie and Alicia!”

“Who?”

He rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Pansy, team sports really are for everybody.”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Pansy considered him, shrugging.

“Not into team sports. . .” Harry noted, hunching over the questionnaire again, “recreational flyer. . .Say, what kind of broom do you have?”

“Same as Draco’s. Nimbus 2001.”

“His father buy you one, too?” He couldn’t resist. She cocked her eyebrow at him.

She snorted. “I don't need anyone else's father to buy me things, Potter, and if you hadn't grown up amongst the Muggles you would know about wizarding nobility and all the different houses and families. However, since you couldn't resist making a dig at me, it's only fitting I set you right. Draco’s father bought those brooms for Slytherin after Draco made the team. Not before.”

“Yeah, sure. And I do know about the wizarding nobility, Pansy. For example, I know that you are probably your own grandmother.”

"Oh, shut up, you stupid halfblood," Pansy sneered, "And believe whatever you will about Draco, Potter, but it’s true. He plays Quidditch for Slytherin because we --- Slytherin --- want him to. He tried out just like the rest of them, you sodding git.” They glared at one another. Harry spoke through clenched teeth.

“Favorite food?”

“Steak tare-tar.”

“Raw meat. How extraordinarily fitting. Knock-Knock.”

“What?”

“I said, 'Knock-Knock'.” Harry waited expectantly; she stared at him, confused.

“Doesn’t know about Knock-Knock jokes…Favorite academic subject?”

“Herbology.”

“Favorite professor?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, Professor Sprout is very good to me, and I do like Professor Vector a lot—good sense of humour, that one has. And Professor Dumbledore.”

Harry was astonished.

“Dumbledore?”

“You have a problem with Dumbledore?”

“No,” he looked at her for a moment. “But, Malfoy always--"

"Draco and I have different opinions on Dumbledore, as do our parents. Don't judge me by Draco."

"That's a rather tall order, seeing as you're always alongside him being his screechy little sycophant."

"You're no better! Always the goody-goody, aren't you, Potter? Always doing things to make the rest of us look selfish and bad. You're a show-off --- and really, you ought to do something about that ridiculous hero complex you've been sporting since our first year," she said coldly.

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about? Oh, I don't know. Maybe Cedric Diggory could explain it to you better than I. Why don't you ask him?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You're really horrid, you know that?"

"So are you. Now get on with the stupid question thing."

"Fine," Pansy could see his hands shaking. "Pets?”

“My family has a Kneazle.”

“What’s its name?”

“Boots.”

“Boots?”

“You were expecting something more sinister?”

“Definitely.”

“You can put down evil Boots if it makes you feel better,” she snarked.

“Best friend?”

“Blaise and Millicent.”

“Zambini, right?”

“There’s no “m” in Blaise’s name. It’s ‘Zabini’ not ‘Zambini’” she pointed out.

“Oh, okay. Thanks. Bulstrode…Does Millicent spell her name with one ‘l’ or two?”

“Two.”

Pansy was becoming bored with this exercise; she put her hand back on her magazine.

“Plans for the future?”

“It's ever so nice to think about one's future, don't you agree? I'm so glad I have a future.”

“Nice. Thanks for that. Future goals?”

“That’s the same question and it’s still none of your business.”

“Siblings?”

“None that I know of.”

“Favorite book?”

“Well it’s hard to say. I read a lot. Not like Granger, but a lot.”

“Yes, well Hermione will be surprised to hear that,” he said, “seeing as she's always thought you're about as thick as a concussed troll. Well, that’s a start anyway.” Harry folded the paper and looked at her smugly.

Pansy hoisted her magazine; several minutes passed before she spoke again from behind its pages.

“28^th May.”

“What?”

“I said, 28^th May. That’s my birthday.”

“Fine." Harry fished his pencil out from his pocket and noted the fact on his questionnaire.

“So perhaps you’d better shop soon, Potter,” she instructed, not bothering to look up. “My mother says it’s important to always be well prepared.”

Harry shook his head. Merlin on a cracker.

Impossible. He felt an actual twinge of pity for Malfoy.

The train rolled into Kingussie at exactly 10:30 a.m. Upon disembarking, the students regrouped one last time for a brief review of the day’s plans.

“Feel free to meet up for lunch. You all have the phone number where I can be reached if there is an emergency, and I fully expect young adults such as yourselves to adequately discern what is and what is not an actual emergency. Have a good time.”

Pansy allowed Harry to take the lead, as she was unfamiliar with map reading in general. Apparently he had jotted down a few notes prior to the trip, and seemed to know the basic route to take.

“Have you been here before?”

“Once. My Godfa-” Harry was cut off as a familiar blonde form streaked in front of him and grabbed Pansy around the waist from behind. Susan trotted to catch up.

“Guess who’s coming with you,” Draco whispered in her ear, glaring at Potter.

“I really don’t want any trouble, Malfoy.”

“Well, don’t cause any, then. I can’t help it that you're always going around--”

“Cut it out, you two,” Susan interjected, snatching the map from Harry’s hand, “I’m aiming for full O.W.L.s this year and I won’t have your stupid, petty rivalry interfering. So just knock it off.”

The group trudged down the street, Susan having taken over the lead.

Kingussie was located in the Scottish Highlands. Nestled next to the river Spey, the little town dated to before the thirteenth century. Pansy found herself admiring the misty Cairngorm foothills beyond the river. Two lochs were nearby: Insh and Morlich. It was a fine day, indeed, for the summer to fade upon.

“I expect we’ll want to do our food shopping last,” Susan was saying, “because we wouldn’t want our groceries to spoil for sitting in a warm bag for hours on end. So I guess we have quite a bit of time to explore.”

“What’s there to do here?” Draco asked, looking bored as he surveyed the shop fronts.

“Well, there’s shopping for other things, of course. There’s the Ruthven Barracks outside of town; we could tour that. Umm, let’s see…there’s a man who gives sheep-herding demonstrations on his farm. It says here his tours are open to the public. We might be able to shear a sheep.”

“That might be useful for you, Malfoy,” Harry commented. “Crabbe and Goyle would be so grateful.”

“They can shave each other for all I care.”

“What are the Barracks you were talking about, Susan?” Pansy asked.

“The Ruthven Barracks. They’re fortified ruins last occupied in 1745 by the Jacobites. That would be Muggle history, of course.”

“Currently in the possession of the Fitzroy family --- my cousins, don’t you know,” Draco interjected loftily.

“Shut up and stop bragging,” Harry said.

“Fine,” Draco responded icily, “I get enough history at school. Besides, I know how painful family issues are for you, Potter. Or should I say, lack thereof.”

“Oh look!” Susan stopped suddenly, diverting their attention. “A Muggle toy shop!”

They pressed their faces against the window. Not a single thing moved, not even the tiny train on the tracks assembled intricately throughout the window display.

“Now that is just bizarre,” Draco breathed, looking quite amazed.

“Muggle things don’t move like ours do,” Harry said.

“Let’s go in,” Draco grabbed Pansy’s hand and hauled her through the front door, a bell tinkling as they entered. They looked around, fascinated.

“Wow, Muggles sure do have a lot of toys to choose from,” Susan observed quietly.

“It’s because they don’t have magic. They need more things to amuse themselves with,” Draco responded, looking around. His eyes suddenly brightened and he strode over to a pink and lavender display. “And just what are these lovely things?”

Harry Potter looked as if he might honestly die. “I’m sorry, Malfoy, but I refuse to ogle Barbie with you.”

“Barbie?” Draco’s mouth curled slyly, “Well, hello there, Barbie…”

Pansy peeked at them over his shoulder. “Oh, honestly. That doll is so out of proportion! If any real woman was built like that she’d brain herself on the pavement when she tried to walk. There’s such a thing as too much of a good thing. Come on, Susan!”

The girls explored the store and Pansy had to admit even though the items were oddly static, some of them were really quite fetching.

“Oh Pansy, look at these!” Susan had found a shelf stocked with miniature scenes, with tiny dolls the size of their pinky tips. Pansy pulled one off the shelf.

“Polly Pocket,” she mused, “How very quaint! I should get one of these for my cousin Polly. She’d think this is adorable.” Each little scene was housed in its own compact and each differed from the other. She selected a Polly Pocket in the shape of a scalloped seashell, which opened up to reveal a tiny fairy castle. Susan selected a jungle scene for herself. They paid for their purchases and headed on, the boys electing to remain behind in the toy store a little longer.

There were rows of shops of all kinds. Susan and Pansy browsed through a small gift store, a place selling jewelry, and a funny little shop called All Things Scottish. The latter was quite an adventure.

“I'd like to pick up something Scottish for my Dad- for his birthday. Like a little Leprechaun or something,” a rather loud man was saying to the shopkeeper as they entered.

“Ooo, an American,” Susan whispered, clutching Pansy’s arm. The shopkeeper’s eyebrow piqued.

“Oh, laddie, I'm afraid leprechaun's are, in fact, Irish creatures.”

“Scottish, Irish. It's all the same by me,” the tourist laughed jovially. Pansy cringed inwardly --- her Grandfather was Scottish. Such was the wrong thing to say to a Scotsman. The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, it’s the same thing, is it?” The old man slammed his hand to a large map of the British Isles hanging behind him. “It’s the same? Have a look at the map! There’s Scotland, there’s Ireland, and there’s the bloody sea --- now, get out!”

The girls giggled quietly as the tourist fled the shop.

“Now, girls,” the shopkeeper said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, “What can I be helping yeh with? But first,” he paused dramatically and pointed a finger at them, “do yeh know the difference between Scotland and Ireland?”

“Quite,” Susan said. “Like you said, sir, there’s the bloody sea. That jumper there --- how much is it?”

“Ah, the Kintyre --- a lovely jumper, virgin wool, hand knit. That one’s got traditional Aran stitchin’. Ninety-five pounds.”

“Oh. Well it sure is beautiful,” Susan ran her hand appreciatively over the fine wool, “My mother would love this for Christmas. What sizes does it come in?”

“Wee, not-so-wee, and friggin’ huge,” the shopkeeper winked, “No, no- I’m pullin’ yer leg. 36-38, 40-42, and 44-46.”

“I think I’ll take it in the 40-42,” Susan opened her purse and turned conspiratorially to Pansy, “Don’t tell Professor Lupin I’m shopping, all right?”

“Why, Susan! That’s rather sneaky of you.”

~*~

Their next stop was a pet store. Pansy had never been around Muggle pets really, as her family tended to lean toward the wizarding exotics. Of course she knew of cats and dogs, but there were several animals new to her at the shop that she found positively delightful. She was visiting with a troupe of guinea pigs when she felt a hand at her waist and Draco appeared. The little pigs ran madly around their glass enclosure, whistling like a herd of furry locomotives. His face broke into a broad smile --- a look she hadn’t seen on him in years. He seemed so youthful and earnest.

“What are those creatures?” he asked, extending a finger toward a brown one covered in whirling rosettes.

“Guinea pigs,” she read from the sign on the tank, “'also known as cavies, are of the rodent family and originate from the plains of South America. Domesticated over the ages, guinea pigs are interesting, loving pets and their wisdom includes gentleness, humane treatment of others, love and responsibility.’ Oh, aren’t they adorable? Listen to them whistle!”

“Here you go,” the shop’s proprietor had come over; she handed Pansy and Draco each a stalk of celery for the cavies. The creatures rushed the glass. “And today I’m willing to do a special: two for the price of one!”

“I wish we could. We’re on a budget,” Pansy confided, crinkling her nose. They moved through the store.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry pointed at a large cage, “Check it out! Ferrets.” Pansy was certain he was quite satisfied when Draco visibly flinched.

~*~

After leaving the pet shop, the group met up with Ron, who was walking with his partner Astrid Lestrange. They looked very tired.

“Oi, Harry!” Ron called, relief visible on his face. Harry hurried over.

“How about a spot of lunch?”

“Yeah, that would be great. Oh,” Ron said, shifting uncomfortably, “uh, this is my class partner, Astrid.”

“Hello,” the younger girl said pleasantly.

"Hello."

“Are you sure you can afford lunch out, Weasley?” Draco sneered contemptuously, “or did your parents have to send you the rent money for some fish and chips?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Ron said, reddening, but holding his temper, “Come on, then, Harry. Hermione’s gone ahead to the café across the way and I said I’d meet her." He raked his eyes over Harry's group. "We can all go I 'spose.”

Harry turned to Pansy. “Will this do for you?” he asked.

“I expect it's fine,” she sighed. Harry looked at Ron, shaking his head slightly.

“It’s been a long day.”

i>fine day,” Pansy sniffed. “Let’s go.”

They crossed the street and headed toward the café. Several students from the Muggle Studies class were convening for lunch and as they approached the door a crackly voice spoke up.

“Can you spare us some change, love?” An elderly woman sat on a bench. She was filthy and her clothes were in tatters. Her hair was matted and she was missing most of her teeth. Pansy stepped back, frightened.

“And what do you need our money for?” Draco asked icily, his eyes raking up and down the tatty Muggle.

“Just for a bite to eat,” the old hag answered.

“Then go home and have something to eat, instead of bothering people you don’t even know for money.”

She had heard this suggestion plenty of times before, and spread her arms wide. “This ‘ere's me home.”

Ron and Harry both dug through their pockets.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Ron said, handing the beggar two pounds, and staring angrily at Draco. "He's just now been let out of the asylum."

“Thanks love,” she said, bestowing a hideous, toothless grin to Harry and Ron. “I think I fancy something hearty for lunch.”

Draco’s lip curled. “Why are you giving your money to a lazy old hag like that?” he inquired snootily, as they continued into the cafe. “She should get a job, not a handout. Really, it’s disgusting.”

Ron sneered contemptuously at Draco. "Isn't it, though? It's funny that you're really no different than that beggar lady. You've never earned a thing in your life. Really the only difference between you and her is that you've got better toys and a decent wardrobe." He and Harry turned and walked into the café.

~*~

Lunch was well timed. Pansy, Astrid, Goyle, Draco, Susan, Mina, Ernie Macmillan, Millicent, and Hannah Abbott shared a large table, and the meal was actually quite pleasant. Pansy couldn’t help smirking when Blaise waved to her from where she was sitting with Neville Longbottom. Hannah brought out a deck of regular Muggle playing cards and taught everyone how to play regular Snap, and a different game called Knock-out Whist. Being away from Hogwarts muddied the natural boundaries between the Houses and Pansy found she rather enjoying the conversations with the Hufflepuffs. Even Draco was relatively pleasant, at one point immersing himself in a discussion on Quidditch teams with Ernie. Shortly, it was coming up on three o’clock and Susan suggested they start out for the grocery and beckoned for Harry to rejoin their group. Reluctantly he sauntered over, and they set out for the Smiths store.

“I could sure use my wand right now,” Susan said, red-cheeked from the exertion of carrying her packages, “I’d charm all these bags to fit right in my pocket.”

“Here, Susan,” Harry took two bags from her. Pansy elbowed Draco and motioned with her head.

“Oh…yes, and I’ll take these.” He added them to his own parcels, freeing Susan’s hands.

“Thanks, boys,” she smiled appreciatively.

Within fifteen minutes the group reached Smiths.

“After you,” Harry said, standing aside for Pansy’s grand entrance. Regally, she ventured forth. With the slightest of buzzing sounds and a mechanical swoop, the door slid open. Alarmed, she recoiled, and jumped back into Susan, who was close at her heels.

“Oh!” Susan clutched at her face. “My nose!”

The door slid closed again as the four students huddled together on the outside walk.

“Oh, Susan,” Pansy said, embarrassed, “I’m so sorry! Will you be all right?”

“Yes, I think so…that was quite a knock, though.” Susan rubbed at her injured nose.

“I’m really very sorry,” she said, before wheeling on Harry. “Potter! What were you thinking? Couldn’t you have warned me?”

“Er…”

“Famous last words. You go first.”

“I was just trying to be polite…”

Carefully, they entered the store. Once they were safely inside, Pansy took in the surroundings. To her right was the flower shop; masses of garish bouquets and fluffy arrangements were ready for purchase. Strange beeping sounds kept coming. The air was an interesting amalgamation of fruity, musty and pungent smells, and Pansy could also detect the scent of freshly baked bread. There were colours and smells and Muggles everywhere. Rows and rows of merchandise lined the store.

It was appalling.

“What’s that sound?” she asked.

“Those are registers,” Harry said. Pansy looked at him, bewildered. “The clerks use them to add up your purchases. They beep whenever a new item is registered in the system.” Nodding, she followed behind him. Draco and Susan brought up the rear.

“We’ll need a trolley, first off,” Harry said, stopping at a row of metal carts perched on wheels. Freeing one from the pile, he pushed it in front of him and passed the flower shop. Glancing back, he slowed. “Malfoy, get a trolley.”

“I will not.”

“Whatever, Malfoy. Carry your groceries for all I care.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Susan rolled her eyes and stalked back to the trolley stalls.

Pansy noticed one of the wheels of the trolley wobbled mightily, creating a noisy sound trail in their wake.

Susan had a plan. “We’ll start with the dry goods first, then fresh fruits and vegetables. Then we’ll stop at the butcher. You two weren’t planning for fish were you?” Pansy and Harry shook their heads. “We’ll skip the Fishmonger, then.”

Draco absolutely refused to touch the trolley, although he did load Susan’s packages under the main basket for her. Once she had adjusted to the rather loud and startling atmosphere, Pansy found this part of the assignment went quickly. Harry obviously had previous experience in the matter, so he took charge of navigating the store. They only argued twice—once over the olives, and then again about the chicken breasts. Harry had pointed out pre-packed breasts in the freezer section while Pansy insisted on fresh.

“Professor Lupin said nothing could be pre-packaged,” she argued.

“He meant we couldn’t buy full meals already cooked,” he explained, and led her to a section with boxes of individually frozen meals and pointed. “See, like these.”

“Oh,” she had said, impressed at the range of choices. “I still prefer the fresh ones, though.”

“It’s the same thing, Pansy!”

“Do you have a problem with fresh breasts, Potter?” she cocked her head innocently at him.

/p>

~*~

“You know,” Draco said, “there’s something I saw, which I feel utterly compelled to have.” They had finished with their groceries and were relaxing on a set of benches outside Smiths, surrounded by bags.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Oh just something,” he said, avoiding her gaze, “I’ll meet you at the train station. Susan, do you mind? We’re all done with the actual assignment part of this, right?”

“Go ahead--we’re done,” she said, and turned to Harry and Pansy as Draco trotted off. “We can charm our groceries as soon as Professor Lupin gives us our wands back—that will keep them cool until we get back to Hogwarts.”

“If you’re going for that bloody ridiculous doll,” Pansy called after Draco’s retreating form, “I’ll toss it out the train window!”

“Oh, I already got one of those,” he called back, disappearing around a corner.

“It’s true,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

~*~

As they prepared for the return trip to Hogwarts, Professor Lupin returned their wands and Pansy and Susan immediately chilled the groceries and went to shrink their packages, which they had hidden from Professor Lupin in a regular Muggle locker upon arriving back at the train station. Draco had returned from his mysterious errand with two rather large, plain brown bags, which he refused to either shrink or show to Pansy.

“So how was it?” Professor Lupin asked, surveying the group. Affirmative voices rang out. “Good. I thought you would have a nice time. Now, the practical is complete. You are free to share the ride home with your friends—or your class partners if you wish. It’s up to you.”

They barely made the train, as most of the girls stopped to primp in the bathroom before entering the portal in the last stall. Pansy and Draco rushed to find a vacant compartment as the train pulled out of the station. Settling his packages on the floor, Draco stretched out lazily on the seat and pointed his wand at the door.

“Obfirmo angustus."

“Hey!” she chastised, “Isn’t that one of those locking spells my mother warned me about?”

“Mmm hmm. It’s a good one all right,” he looked at her, grinning slyly, “Come here.”

“Maybe in a bit,” she smiled demurely.

“So,” he continued, clearly choosing to not push the matter for now, “did you enjoy your day with Potter?”

“No.”

“I thought you wouldn’t.”

“Who would?” she sniffed.

“Just the Weasel and the Mudblood, I suppose.”

“He’s really -- he’s rather…” she searched for the right word, “bland.”

Draco smiled. “Good. I’m glad he’s boring.”

One of his brown paper bags began shaking and a scratching sound began.

“Hey, did you find a wizarding shop and not tell me? What’s in there?” she asked.

“It’s not from a wizarding shop. I bought it in Kingussie.” A strange look came over his face, and he considered her expectantly. “It’s for you.”

She looked at him blankly, but then a dawning of recognition came over her. Her face lit up.

“Did you really? Can I?” she gestured at the bag excitedly.

“It’s yours.”

Gingerly, she opened the bag and withdrew a plain cardboard carrier. As she went to open it, the box began whistling furiously. Excited, Pansy opened the flap and peeked inside. An explosion of orange rosettes greeted her, and her new guinea pig looked up at her from its confines.

“Oh…” she said wondrously. “Wait, there’s two!” She could now see glimpses of brown fur from under a pile of pine shavings. “You bought two of them?”

“That was the deal, remember? Two for the price of one.”

“You’ve never struck me as a bargain shopper, Draco,” she said, smiling.

Carefully, she lifted the chubby orange pig from its temporary quarters and brought it to her side of the train. It ventured a few steps, then stopped and whistled loudly in the middle of the seat.

Draco smirked, and Pansy was filled with joy by his gesture.

“Thank you,” she said, simply.

“Now will you come over?”

Carefully, she put Orange Pig back in his box with his friend, making sure to check the ventilation holes were clear. Draco watched her.

“Come here,” he said softly.

She took a moment to finish rearranging the packages, and then went to stand over him and lightly ran her fingers through his hair. He looked up at her from where he lay and reached for her blouse, pulling it free from the waistband of her skirt. Her heart knocked, but she didn’t move, even when his hand disappeared its hem. She closed her eyes, feeling his fingers skim gently over her belly and then up to the curve of her breast. He pulled her down to lie beside him and she stared into his eyes for a moment.

“Thank you, Draco,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you like the piggy.”

She kissed him and let him explore—but only a little.

~*~

On Sunday night, the Slytherins made their way to the kitchen area of the castle. Millicent tickled the pear on the still life, behind which were the Hogwarts kitchens. As the picture swung open a small figure hurried forth. Bat-like ears flapping, the elf’s eyes widened when he recognized them.

“What is you doings down here with the domestics?”

“What’s a house elf doing questioning its master?” Draco retorted, his eyes flat. Dobby’s ears wilted slightly at the castigation.

“Dobby means no disrespect, sir.”

“We’re here for the Muggle Studies practical,” Pansy interjected, “Are we in the right place?”

“Oh, Miss Pansy, you is confused. Master Draco is not taking Muggle Studies,” Dobby turned back to Draco, “never Muggle Studies, sir!”

“It’s certainly not your concern, elf,” Draco sniffed, his ears reddening slightly at having to explain himself to Dobby.

“Master Draco is taking Muggle Studies?” the inquisitive elf persisted.

“Did you not understand me the first time I said so?”

Dobby’s spindly hand rose to his cheek and his mouth split in horror. Without warning he pitched to the floor, shaking convulsively.

Startled, Pansy knelt by the stricken elf. “Er…elf?” She quickly covered her wand with a handkerchief from her pocket and poked the creature gingerly. “Are you ill?”

Dobby quivered on the floor like a gelatinous frog.

“Draco,” She was becoming worried. No sound came from Dobby’s throat and the little elf seemed unable to draw air. “something’s really wrong! We should get help.”

“What’s going on?” Professor Lupin's voice came forth. Pansy sighed in relief.

“It’s the elf, sir,” Draco said, flicking his hand toward Dobby, “It’s ill or something.”

Lupin knelt at Dobby’s side; Pansy put away her hankie and her wand.

“What is it?” Lupin asked Dobby gently. More students were arriving and they crowded around, jockeying for a good position as they strained to see the action.

“Malfoy!” Hermione pushed forward suddenly, indignant, “What did you do to Dobby this time? Hasn’t he suffered enough at the hands of your miserable family?” She knelt at Dobby’s side, her brow furrowed with concern, and lightly began to pat the elf’s ugly cheeks.

“Shut up, Granger!” Draco crossed his arms as he turned away, “I didn’t even touch the elf.”

The rest of the kitchen elves had gathered around nervously. Dobby finally emitted a horrible, whining shriek, inhaled with a sharp whistle, and then made the noise again. His shaking intensified.

“Why,” Hermione said, looking closer, “I think he’s…laughing!” She brought the elf to his feet.

Once stabilized, Dobby dabbed at his watery eyes with one of several knitted caps perched on his head. “Master Draco has told Dobby a fine joke,” he finally managed, “A fine, fine joke! Dobby has not had such a good laughing in many long times.”

“I did not tell you a joke,” Draco snapped petulantly over his shoulder, seething. “I’m here for the Muggle Studies practical.”

“But…but, Master Draco,” Dobby was clearly bewildered, “Master Lucius isn’t letting his son near Muggles, not ever, sir.”

“I hardly owe explanations to a disgraced house elf.”

Dobby ears drooped again and he turned away. Pansy gave Draco a hard elbow to the side and gently motioned toward the forlorn creature’s retreating back.

“He served your family for over a century,” she whispered fiercely.

“So?”

“So, be polite.”

“That’s how the weak get ahead,” he sniffed.

Pansy shook her head at him, irritated, and walked off.

“What?” he called after her. “What’s your problem?”

She marched toward Harry, Ron and Hermione. Their faces fell markedly as she approached. Arms crossed, she took a place next to Harry.

“Sorry to ruin your day, Potter.”

“That’s okay, Pansy. I know you can’t help yourself.”

~*~

“Ow!” the cry came across the steamy, hot kitchen, “Bloody hell!”

Pansy glanced over to see Draco shaking his hand, a pained expression on his face. Susan rushed to wet a rag for his burn.

“Are you all right?” she called to him.

“I don’t know if I can go on,” he lamented woefully, “Gods, was that ever hot.” Susan deftly wrapped his hand and shoved a checkered oven glove over the makeshift bandage, then forced a whisk into Draco's good hand.

“You can visit Madame Pomfrey after we’re done. Now stir,” she ordered. Draco threw Pansy a pained look as Susan pushed him back toward the stove.

“Okay, so we’re making a simple white sauce,” Harry redirected her, plopping a heavy sack onto the butcher block. “Take the flour and you’ll be wanting to put 125 grams into the bowl. Make sure and measure it very carefully. Too much or too little can really mess things up.” He had explained the different basic measuring tools to her earlier. She sorted through the plethora of tools—all of them different sizes.

“This looks big enough,” she mused, selecting one. Carefully, she measured the flour, stirred it with a spoon, and then flung it into the bowl with gusto. A fine, floury dust flew up her nose. Pansy sneezed, and an enormous cloud puffed up.

“Start over,” Harry directed, “and get a new bowl.”

She was more careful the second time and managed to transfer the flour without incident. Hmm. This doesn’t really seem like it will make a lot of sauce, she thought, adding a second portion. She liked lots of sauce with her chicken. “All right.”

“Okay, good,” Harry was busy carefully removing the fat and ligaments from the chicken breasts with a knife, “Now mix in the salt and then you want to transfer it to a heavy skillet and cook it until it’s kind of pinkish. Then you want to put it aside and let it cool.” He put down his knife and showed her how to light a match and turn on the stove.

“Do I need to stir it?”

“Yeah.” He gave her a tool to use.

“What’s this?”

“A spatula.”

“Is it...Ukrainian?”

“I have no idea.”

They worked without conversation for the next fifteen minutes. As the flour was heating Harry showed Pansy how to trim the chicken breasts and she didn’t do very badly on the two he let her do by herself. Once the flour had been heated, and then subsequently cooled, he directed her from the butcher block as he began working on the salad.

“Add 237 ml of milk and the butter into a clean pan. You want the flame kind of low.”

Pansy added 574ml of milk, plopped the butter into the pan, and adjusted the stove.

Harry continued, “Okay, take another 237 ml of milk and mix it in with the flour and make it into a paste.”

She added 574 ml of milk to the flour mixture and began stirring. He came to look over her shoulder.

“Hmm. That looks a little runny. Keep stirring, I guess.”

When Harry was satisfied the flour paste would not stiffen any further, he directed Pansy to add it to the pan on the fire. “My Aunt Petunia says to cook white sauce until it’s thick enough to cover the back of a spoon. Stir.” He turned back to the salad and began silently slicing the fresh mushrooms.

“Is -- is your Auntie nice, then?”

“No, not really.”

“Your Dad’s sister, or your Mum’s?”

“Shut up Pansy. Don’t you dare talk about my Mum or Dad,” he looked up at her, forgetting the mushrooms. She opened her mouth to retort, but found she really didn’t know what to say. Slightly chagrined, she returned her attention to the sauce, which wasn’t doing very well at all.

It was terribly runny. Maybe it needs more flour. Pansy added another scoop. Gummy lumps swam about the pan. Damned if I’m asking him for any help. She consulted the recipe: 6 grams salt. Thinking that wouldn’t be enough to adequately flavor her sauce, she used the flour scoop to add the salt and then reached for the pepper. Shaking the pepper canister viciously and fuming inwardly at Harry Potter, she didn’t notice as the plastic cover came loose. With a tremendous rush a mountain of pepper filled the saucepan.

It took every ounce of strength she had to not scream. And she wasn’t completely sure whether it was the pepper, really, or Potter’s castigation that goaded her so. Glancing sideways at him, she surreptitiously reached for a ladle to remove the excess pepper.

There he sat, diligently slicing the vegetables --- so carefully, so precisely, paying no attention to her whatsoever.

Pausing, Pansy thought for a very long moment. Then slowly, deliberately, she stirred the mountain of black pepper into the sauce. Thoughtfully, she added another quarter cup of salt. Picking discretely through the spice rack she examined different jars, contemplating their ingredients. She glanced at Harry again; he was arranging his masterpiece in a large wooden bowl now. Utterly hating him in all his noble, pristine, unruffled Gryffindor goodness, Pansy selected a jar of tiny, red peppers with Asian lettering and a picture of some kind of explosion on the jar and quickly added the entire contents to the sauce. She stirred the peppers down to the bottom of the pan.

Simmer.

Turning, she fixed a plasticine smile on her face. “Here, Harry, don’t be angry. Let me help you with the salad.”

~*~

Professor Lupin inspected everyone’s efforts prior to letting them eat. He complimented Neville and Blaise on the omelet and potatoes they had made, and discretely expressed mild alarm at Pansy’s sauce.

“Who would have thought it?” Blaise said to her as they waited for Lupin to give the signal to eat, “Neville can really cook! Look at how fluffy these eggs are.”

“My Gran’s taught me the basics,” Neville said shyly.

“You really ought to be a natural at Potions, then,” Blaise noted, giving him a brilliant smile. Neville blushed deeply.

Draco and Susan were poised over their own chicken meal, and Crabbe and Granger had two heaping plates of steaming pasta in front of them, topped with some kind of green sauce --- pesto perhaps.

Lupin gave the go ahead, and the clattering of forks and plates were heard as the class moved to eat.

>“Sauce?” Harry asked, offering the gravy boat.

“No, not this time. Thanks, though.”

He poured a greying, speckled river over his chicken breast, and then dressed his salad.

“I thought you said you like sauce,” he enquired.

“I do. But, not tonight.”

“It is rather grey.”

“Are you insulting my sauce?”

“No! I was just noticing that, for a white sauce, it’s very…er…”

“Grey.”

“Well, yes.”

She gave him a flat stare and dug into her salad.

“Not bad,” she smiled, eyeing his plate. Finally he began dissecting his chicken breast.

“Looks done,” he said, inspecting the middle, and popped a generous bite into his mouth, swallowed, and then quickly took another. Pansy waited. Harry paled. Then, coughing, he spat the mouthful of food onto his plate and grabbed for his water goblet.

“Capers?” she asked sweetly, easing the tiny jar toward him.

Harry jumped from the table, both hands clapped over his mouth, and bolted for the doors. Raucous laughter trailed him as he ran, and the heavy doors of the Great Hall echoed when they slammed behind him.

~*~

“Twenty points from Slytherin, Miss Parkinson,” Professor Lupin informed her sternly, disappointed. Pansy crossed her arms and hoisted her chin slightly. “And I will be informing Professor Snape.”

“He was rude to me, Professor.”

“I understand. What you did was not an acceptable reaction.”

She said nothing. Snape will give me back the twenty points somehow, she thought, defiant.

“I’m requiring you to take care of the mess in the corridor.”

“I will not! The recipe said ‘pepper to taste.’ That’s totally subjective!”

“Then perhaps you’d like to sample it yourself, to see if it’s ‘too taste’?”

Her eyes shifted and she contemplated the carpet.

“Pansy,” Lupin said patiently, “It’s not right to have the house elves clean up a puddle of sick when it was due solely to your practical joke.”

“It’s not my fault Potter has a baby-boy stomach.”

“You will clean up the mess.”

“I won’t.”

“Pansy, I require you to clean up the mess.”

“No.”

“Then it’s an additional twenty points from Slytherin, I’m afraid.”

“Good.”

“I expected better of you, Miss Parkinson.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

“Detention. For your cheek,” Lupin said, noting her punishment on a piece of parchment, “I’ll owl you with your assignment.”

~*~

It had been funny enough, for sure, seeing Potter bolt from the Great Hall, but as Lupin had lead her to his office, the smell of vomit had wafted through the corridor and she had had to pass Harry sitting morosely on the stairs, embarrassed and glaring, trying to calm his guts.

But, honestly. She didn’t understand what the big fuss was about.

Slytherin House roiled with dark humour. If she were to have made Goyle throw up, everyone would have laughed—even Goyle. And the house elves needed their chores and errands to earn their keep, didn’t they? She felt the moral obligation to provide work for the elves—they just weren’t happy without it and if she could say anything for herself it would be that she did have an unusually charitable heart when it came to lesser beings. It wasn’t that Slytherin housed an indecent atmosphere, but make no mistake, it was tough --- vibrant and writhing and tough.

The snake pit. Slytherin.

There was always the unspoken drive to best each another, via grades, performance, money, social status, and, yes, even practical jokes. Anything that could be tangibly quantified was automatically part of their play. The Slytherins were fiercely competitive with each other --- for they felt sure they were really the only ones worthy of own their competition. It wasn’t that they didn’t have friends or associates from the other Houses, rather it was, for them, the true grit in life could only be found within their own kind. To be always on the prowl, always on the defensive, always looking for the hidden meanings and motivations behind all interactions, was to be Slytherin.

It was just a tad stressful.

~*~

Flying was an excellent stress-reliever.

The cool night air soothed her immediately when she set off into the darkened skies over the castle. She had felt the need to get out after the pepper incident and Lupin’s lecture. Pansy whizzed through the castle’s turrets and then headed out over the forest. She always enjoyed flying over the Forbidden Forest. She was careful of the creatures living there, but would sometimes dip down low enough to catch sight of an unusual animal or activity. Once, the Weasley family’s car had joined her for a flight, but only for a minute or two. It was a very slow vehicle at this point in its existence, and Pansy’s broom outstripped it easily. This was fine by her --- she had found it a garish and tacky contraption and really wasn’t eager to be seen in its company.

>The moon was full and the sky clear. Pansy wove in and out of the treetops, and at times just hovered and enjoyed the interesting sounds from the nocturnal creatures. Something large and white caught her eyes and she slowed to a hover. Below her was the biggest spider web she could have possibly imagined. Acromantula. Slowly, she cruised in lower for a closer look. She’d never seen an actual Acromantula lair before. It shined in the light of the moon, almost like a giant blanket of snow traversing what seemed to be acres of forest, and a rather fetid smell rose from its midst. Faint rustling sounds all around her told her there were active spiders around. She was not scared of spiders really, even large ones, but she was cognizant of their nature. Her eyes fully adjusted to the light levels, she was finally able to make out hundreds --- thousands even --- of the massive spiders scurrying about, tending to their business. A slight tugging at her broom caused her to turn. A smallish Acromantula --- about four feet across --- was trying to climb aboard. Time to go.

Pansy tipped her broom upward again and flew from the forest toward the Quidditch Pitch. Draco had said he might meet her there a little later. As she approached she could see there were a few other students flying recreationally, too, that night. She quickly cast a small charm, which allowed her to place a tiny, flashing wick of cold fire onto the back of her robes so she would be noticeable in the dark. The last thing she needed was a midair crash.

The massive Quidditch goal hoops reached into the dark sky. Pansy wound through them on her Nimbus 2001, going faster and faster until she was dizzy. The hoops gleamed in the moonlight; it was an invitation she simply couldn’t refuse. She was rather tired, so she hovered her broom next to the tallest hoop and swung her leg over the rim of the hoop. Grasping its side, she first straddled it, then swung her legs over and hoisted herself onto the hoop. Hugging the heavy pewter circle tightly, she sat there with her legs dangling, as if she were sitting in a swing a hundred feet high. She let her broom go and it sank slowly to the ground to rest on the grass.

She had always loved the view from the hoops --- it was as if she could see the entire world. There was the castle shining brightly over the hill. The inky blackness of the lake stretched off her left. She could see tiny shadows passing across the distant windows at Hogwarts. Although the Astronomy tower was dim, Pansy knew it was likely the most active part of the castle at this time of night. She contemplated it rather dreamily.

Maybe someday Draco and I will go up there…

Something zipped around her head with a tiny, high-pitched whine. It came to hover in front of her. Carefully, Pansy reached out and gently grasped the Snitch in her left hand. Its wings beat madly against her fingers, but she held it tight, turning it to examine its intricacies.

“That’s mine. Give it back please.”

Harry was hovering on his Firebolt just a few feet below. She turned her attention back to the Snitch.

“A delicate thing for such a brutal sport. My father has a Golden Snidget, you know. He keeps it as a pet. You can add that to your questionnaire.” Pansy stretched her right arm out and commanded, “UP!”

Her Nimbus 2001 zoomed up to her waiting hand. Carefully, she mounted it, still grasping the Snitch, and turned to face Potter.

“Can I have it back now?” he wouldn’t even look at her. She considered him.

“I don’t think so. Let’s see who can catch it.”

He snorted at the suggestion. She smiled.

“Oh, you think so, eh?” she smirked, knowing he believed he completely had the upper hand.

Swiftly, she threw the Snitch over his head into the dark sky, then flattened herself on her broom, whizzing past him after the tiny golden ball as it zipped away. Within seconds the whooshing of the Firebolt behind her told her he was chasing it, too.

Pansy felt more daring when she flew at night, under the cover of darkness. She was quite accustomed to it, as she generally preferred evening exercise and solitary time. Rushing through the cold air with Harry Potter behind her was really quite invigorating. Round and round the pitch they flew, darting dangerously through and around the hoops, soaring high and diving low, and they blagged, blatched and cobbed one another unmercifully. She knew she’d be bruised the next morning, but no harm. She’d charm the damage away.

She saw the Snitch! It glittered over the tallest goal hoop where she had been sitting just before and then disappeared. Again, she flattened herself against her broom’s handle. Potter was on her tail, and soon surpassed her, but only by a few inches. Neck in neck, their speed increased continuously as they stretched their arms simultaneously forward, reaching for the shining ball.

Suddenly Harry dived downward and headed straight for the ground of the pitch. Pansy followed. Steeling herself, she hurtled downward, then the thought occurred to her. Wronski Feint! Quickly she pulled out of the dive and looked around the pitch like a hawk searching the ground for mice. She knew the purpose of the Wronski Feint. Harry had already circled back when she saw the golden glimmer. Simultaneously, they went after it.

The Snitch was at her fingertips. Harry’s arm was right there, too, though. This time the Snitch took a real dive as they reached and strained. The ground was rushing toward them, and at the last possible moment they each pulled up, making one last desperate attempt for the Snitch, trying to avoid a crash. Pansy felt herself losing her balance, but the Snitch was right there! Her foot banged against Harry’s Firebolt and she used it as leverage for one last leap at the Snitch, forcing Harry to fall with her. Both of them hit the ground with tremendous force and tumbled head over feet, the wind knocked from their lungs. Pansy saw stars, but she was clutching something. Tightening her grip she opened her eyes and saw the Snitch fluttering in Harry’s fingers, its wings beating slowly. Her hand was locked tightly around the middle of his, a mere inch from the Snitch. She was clutching the heavy leather padding of his arm guard.

“Damn!"

Their chests heaved from the exertion of it all and they glared at one another. A look of triumph glowed in Harry’s eyes, but it wasn’t complete; she knew she had surprised him.

>She could feel her eye thickening; she must have knocked it against the handle of her broom when she fell.

“I’ll have a black eye tomorrow, Potter. So, now we’re even. All right?”

“Okay,” he said after a moment.

“I hope you didn’t puke…too hard, then,” she said, searching for the right words.

Harry smirked. “Is that’s an apology?”

“Slytherin style.”

“I see I’m not missing much, then.”

She looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Where,” he asked, still breathless, glossing over her inquiry, “did you learn to fly like that? Who taught you?”

Her gaze hardened defensively. He nodded, understanding.

“Malfoy.”

Several moments passed before she answered.

“It’s the only way I could ever get him to play with me.” Did I just say that, to Harry Potter of all people?

“So his selfish gitiness is nothing new, then?” Pansy felt strangely vindicated by Harry’s offhand observation as he continued, “You’ve known him a long time.”

“We’re in each others’ baby albums, Potter.”

Another moment passed, then Harry began to chuckle.

“I can’t even begin to imagine Malfoy as a baby,” Harry snickered, his chest still heaving slightly.

“And I can’t imagine you as anything but,” came a surly voice from above. Her eyes snapped upward. “Pansy, what are you doing with him?” Draco hovered silently above them on his own Nimbus 2001.

She had forgotten he might be coming. She was glad to see him, but her joy faded quickly when she saw the menacing look on his face.

She realized she was still clutching Potter’s glove-clad hand. She flung it away.

“Oh!” she said, flustered, clambering to her feet, “His Snitch flew up to me and I caught it, and then we were chasing it. To try and catch it…well, we fell,” she finished lamely, “It was nothing.”

Draco said nothing as he alighted on the ground and gracefully dismounted his broom. “You’ve hurt your eye,” he said tightly, inspecting her.

/p>

Harry rose and brushed off his trousers. Straightening his robes, he collected his Firebolt from the ground and put the Snitch in his pocket.

“I’ll be seeing you, Pansy,” he said, ignoring Draco’s gaze. He walked quickly away from the pitch, over the hill toward the Quidditch shed.

Pansy turned to face Draco.

He advanced. Her intuition warned her immediately and she backed away, but he was far too quick. Reaching out, he grabbed her firmly around the waist and pulled her to him, then toppled her back onto the ground with a foot to the back of her knee. Grinding himself into her, his mouth covered hers fiercely, hard and angry, and he slid his hand roughly up the inside of her thigh, flipping her skirt up. His fingers grazed her knickers.

Terrified, she grabbed his wrist and pulled away from his hard kiss.

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed.

He stopped, and then slowly pulled his hand away. She shoved him aside and scrambled to her feet. Draco lay on the ground still, staring up at the stars. Pansy’s eyes were flat as she smoothed down her pleated skirt.

“If you ever touch me like that, I will never speak to or look at you again. Never.”

She turned and grabbed her broom from the ground, mounted it, kicked up and flew out of sight—back to the castle.

Draco got to his feet after a few moments and stood in the middle of the pitch, alone and seething in the moonlight.

~*~

Harry allowed himself a few extra minutes in the showers to revel in his renewed joy. Being back on the pitch at the beginning of the term was always rejuvenating to his spirit. It pushed Privet Drive far back into the recesses of his mind, freeing him. And night flying was extra special, as he could work on his instinctual flying and seeking-- as the Snitch was harder to spot in the dark. Nothing felt better than hitting the sheets after a good workout; he had completed his homework before the disastrous Muggle Studies practical, so he was able to make room for an leisurely evening session, which pleased him.

Harry turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around his slight waist. He scrubbed at his head with a second towel and ran his fingers through his mop a few times, as was his habit. He didn’t even own a hairbrush. It didn’t make any difference, so why bother?

A member of the Hufflepuff team was leaving the shed just as he finished zipping up his trousers.

“All right there, Harry?”

“Yeah, I’m good, thanks.”

Pleasantly drained, he finished dressing and dutifully packed his Quidditch gear into his bag, slung it over his shoulder and took his Firebolt to the locker area. He finished securing his padding, and made to leave the darkened shed.

He was about to extinguish the last light when he was completely blindsided. His bag was ripped from his shoulder and Harry crashed into the tiled wall leading to the showers. He fell to the floor and felt his head being slammed down by a very strong pair of hands. Pain exploded through his skull as his head was knocked again and again into the cold, hard floor.

“Malfoy, stop it…” He knew who it was, of course.

Draco wasn’t about to stop, so Harry fought back.

With a sickening crunch his fist connected with Draco’s patrician nose. The Slytherin was too enraged, though, and took no notice of the pain; blood soon began dripping copiously down his front. Harry’s new glasses went flying and scuttled across the stone floor of the shed as he whipped his head to the side to avoid Draco’s fist.

A fine mist of Draco’s most treasured possession decorated the tile walls as Harry’s fists connected with his face for the second time. With tremendous strength Harry pushed Draco off of him and the two boys tussled, hands locked onto each other’s shoulders as they stumbled back into the showers from the dressing area. Reddish-pink streaks soon began to snake slowly through the water still pooled on the floor from Harry’s shower. They punched one another viciously right back into the dressing area, falling over a row of benches. Finally, Draco landed a perfect uppercut to Harry’s jaw and savoured the sound of his teeth cracking together. He dragged Harry a few feet across the floor and straddled his chest. Bringing his face to within an inch of Harry’s, Draco’s chest heaved as his blood dripped freely onto his rival’s face.

“I should kill you,” he whispered, his voice raspy, a snotty string of bloody spit dripping from the corner of his mouth onto Potter’s ear.

Harry had had enough.

“Whoever kills me, it bloody well won’t be you,” he hissed, and unexpectedly flipped the other boy. Draco’s head banged dully against the stone floor of the Quidditch shed. Wordlessly the drama played itself out, each boy struggling to gain the upper hand. Again managing to straddle Potter on the floor, Draco whipped out his wand and dug the point into the skin right under Harry’s chin and the dark-haired boy finally stopped struggling, wide-eyed. Both of them were heaving from the exertion. Draco made no inclination to speak, only kept his wand at Potter’s throat, progressively digging the slender wood into Harry’s skin until a tiny rivulet of blood eventually began leaking down Harry's pale neck.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Potter asked, awkwardly turning his head to the side to spit a bloody mass from his mouth. What would make Malfoy lose his mind like this --- more readily than usual?

Harry wracked his addled brains, straining against the point of the wand, which pierced his skin.

Quidditch? No. The matches hadn’t even started. Marks? No. Malfoy’s were always better.

Oh.

Oh. That.

“If you have a problem with my being Pansy’s partner, talk to Professor Lupin. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t,” Draco whispered dangerously, his voice cracking slightly, “even say her name.”

Quick as a flash, Harry grabbed Draco’s wand hand and jerked it away from his throat and he heard the familiar-to-him cracking of wood as Malfoy’s wand connected with the stone floor at just the right angle to snap it in half. Giving a final shower of green sparks, the wand came to rest on the floor with an echoing clatter. Harry felt a fiercely dark sense of elation.

"Gladly," Harry hissed, positive Malfoy would commence with the aforementioned death threat after Harry had his say, "because you're both wretched and evil. And you're both ugly to boot." He swiped at Malfoy's chin and glanced reproachfully at the blood now coating his fingers. "And you're wrong about this. This will never change that fact. As far as I'm concerned, you two deserve each other." For a moment Harry was unsure if Malfoy had even heard him; the other boy appeared in a trance.

Examining his defunct want for but a split second, Draco kicked the splintered pieces further aside. Then, slowly, he heaved himself from Harry’s chest and walked out of the shed.

Rolling from his back onto his side, Harry assessed his situation, his heart still hammering from adrenaline. His right eye was almost swollen shut. Practically blind to begin with, her immediately felt around on the floor for his glasses and soon his groping fingers closed around the cool wood of Malfoy’s splintered wand. He grabbed onto it fiercely and felt a tiny undercurrent of energy as the core was drained of the last of its magical properties. Impulsively, Harry stuffed Malfoy’s broken wand haphazardly into the deep pockets of his school robes.

At last he managed to locate his glasses and was shocked to find them perfectly intact. He’d have Hermione check them over to be sure, but at least he could see clearly from his left eye once he had returned his specs to their usual place. Harry staggered to his feet, too stunned still to fully catalog his injuries. Stumbling from the shed, he made his way slowly toward the castle and the safety of Gryffindor Tower.

~*~

Pansy was shocked by Draco’s bloodied appearance when he returned to the dungeons and she immediately put her Runes book aside—she hadn’t been able to concentrate anyway. Trailing silently after him to the boys’ dormitories, furtively she glanced down the corridor before stealing down the hall and slipping through the Fifth Year boys’ door. She knew he would be alone, as Crabbe and Goyle had both been working on their studies in the common room as well.

She found Draco lying face up on his bed, one hand behind his head, with his legs crossed at his ankles. Pansy threw a locking spell on his door before she approached. His face was a mess and a massive gash traversed the top of his left hand. It was swollen and bruised, the cut masked beneath a mixture of congealed blood and torn skin. Pansy trailed her fingers up his sleeve as she made her way toward the head of his bed to examine his face more closely. Grimacing, she brought her face close to his.

“Oh…” The sound escaped from her involuntarily. She put a hand gently to his face.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes shone brightly.

Pansy took out her wand and did what she could for him, but she was no Healer.

i>Vigoratus,” she whispered, over and again, gently touching her wand to him here and there. It helped a little. The swelling in his eye subsided slightly, allowing him to at least lift the lid far enough that he might see out of it. He flexed his injured hand.

“It’s better,” he said, “thanks.” He patted the bed next to him and she curled up against him on her side, one hand on his chest, her head nestled in the crook of his arm so that the top of her hair rested just under his chin. Rather absentmindedly she began rubbing him gently right under his breastbone, feeling the natural dip of his abdomen through the wool of his jumper. He sighed deeply under her touch --- twice.

It didn’t take him very long at all to fall asleep.

She watched him for a while, her head propped on her hand. Then she slipped from his room to rejoin her housemates. She’d just leave him be. Clearly, he was sated.

~*~