Muggle Studies

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Those of you who have followed this story will find a very different feel to this chapter. It is very dark and contains a slashy male/male non-consensual sexual act. If this in any way makes you feel uncomfortable, please be forewarned. As to the question of whether or not this means Muggle Studies is going Slash, the answer is no. No. There is a lot of sexual activity in general in this chapter. It has always been my goal with this series to never write something for the sake of gratuity-- in fact, it was my goal to never extend beyond a PG/PG-13 rating; however, the story simply did not oblige. You can read MY THOUGHTS ON MUGGLE STUDIES for a deeper look into my reasoning behind deciding to take the step from PG to R. As always, feedback is welcome, either on my review threads or in MY LIVE JOURNAL. So, without further ado, WARNING: RATED R for non-consensual male/male SLASH, strong female/male sexuality, graphic childbirth, and graphic language. 06-23-03: ETA: Chapter revised to reflect information and themes found in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

When we grew up and went to school,
There were certain teachers
Who would hurt the children any way they could.

By pouring their derision upon anything we did
Exposing every weakness
However carefully hidden
By the kid…

All in all it's just another brick in the wall…
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

Another Brick in the Wall Part II: Pink Floyd

Snape stepped into his office for the anti-venom he had prepared for today's fifth year lesson, and was unexpectedly met by Fawkes delivering the inner-office post from Dumbledore.

He and the bird had a tacit understanding.

Occasionally Fawkes liked to stay with the Potions Master in the dungeons. Fawkes was never overt in his overtures, and Severus tolerated his presence as long as the Phoenix was not disruptive, and was discreet about not appearing when there was even the slightest chance a student might observe. The very idea of the Head of Slytherin House consorting with Dumbledore's bird would undoubtedly unleash a rapacious stampede of waggling eyebrows throughout Hogwarts, and Severus was completely unwilling to tip his hand regarding his carefully cultivated image.

Snape flipped through the post. There were several general staff memos, a Howler from Filch (which he tossed unopened into the fire), and the revised policy for sick and holiday leave. As well, the House reports had arrived. This week there were only two to contend with. Snape read McGonagall's first--- nothing much there, just several Slytherin first years already behind in Transfiguration. He made a mental note to have a word with the youngsters in question. When he came across the envelope with Lupin's distinctive, sloping handwriting, he couldn't help but roll his eyes. Sitting, he slit the envelope open with his thumb.

Professor Severus Snape
Head: Slytherin House
RE: Points Deductions
27th September, 1996

Professor Snape:

Per Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry regulation No. 236-A, regarding the notification of disbursement or deduction of House Points, I regret I must inform you of the following point deductions from Slytherin House:

Malcolm Baddock: Second Year: Five points for sending a robe-stripping charm in the corridor outside the library between classes. The charm hit Orla Quirke (Second Year: Ravenclaw), causing her robes to be torn in half. Originally I had taken ten points; however, Mr. Baddock was able to repair Miss Quirke's robes quite satisfactorily, thus the lesser deduction.

Vincent Crabbe: Fifth Year: Five points for refusing to relinquish his wand to this Professor during the Muggle Studies practical field trip to Kingussie, Scotland on 17th September.

Gregory Goyle: Fifth Year: Five points for refusing to relinquish his wand to this Professor during the Muggle Studies practical field trip to Kingussie, Scotland on 17th September.

Pansy Parkinson: Fifth Year: Twenty points for deliberately concocting a dinner sauce with inedible ingredients during the Muggle Studies practical applications lab on 19th September, and feeding said sauce to Harry Potter (Fifth Year: Gryffindor). Mr. Potter was taken ill in the corridor outside the Great Hall. Unfortunately, an additional twenty points were subsequently assessed, due to Miss Parkinson's refusal to assist the House Elves in cleaning up the results of her practical joke, as ordered by this Professor. Please note this constitutes a forty point deduction overall. I have also assigned Miss Parkinson a detention for her impertinence in the matter, which I will notify her of separately.

Marcus Flint: Seventh Year: Ten points deducted for scribing his Muggle Studies homework assignment, dated 21 September, with a pure-silver based ink. As you may know, from our time together as Hogwarts peers, silver-based products can be rather problematic for me. Please note that Mr. Flint is restricted from the quill for the duration of the term and may only use the Muggle pencil and composition notebook I provided for all my students at the beginning of the term for his Muggle Studies work. I shall reassess my decision on this injunction following the winter holidays.

As well, I issued a verbal warning to Mina Malkin-Blotts (Third Year) for twice arriving for Muggle Studies without her pencil or composition notebook. She has assured me she will be thoroughly prepared for class henceforth.

As always, should you need to further discuss your charges with me, you may contact me at your leisure.

Remus J. Lupin
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Adjunct Professor- Muggle Studies

Snape slammed his hand down to the desk, Lupin's letter still clutched firmly in his hand. Fawkes, disturbed by the sharp noise, took leave of Snape's shoulder and disappeared into the Floo. Being a Phoenix, he had no need for the powder. After a moment, the letter laid aside, Snape left his desk and returned to the Potions dungeon, where the fifth year Slytherins and Gryffindors were working quietly on the anti-venom for Australian cane toad poison-a favorite among certain dark wizards, due to its easily-masked fruity flavor. Snape's cloaks billowed ominously as he swept into the dungeon.

"Miss Parkinson!"

She looked up, refreshingly earnest in her academic concentration. "Yes sir?"

"My office. Now."

Although Snape was obviously an unpleasant man, and his fits of pique were nothing new, something about his particular tone made even the Slytherins look up from their cauldrons.

Over on the Gryffindor side of the dungeon, Harry found himself savagely pleased at the look of guarded trepidation on Pansy's face, as he was still sporting the sickly yellow remnants of Malfoy's black eye (Madame Pomfrey had only been able to do so much). It's about time a Slytherin was in Snape's crosshairs, he thought.

Pansy slid from her seat and followed the professor to his office. After she entered, he closed the door --- rather harshly --- and cast a powerful silencing charm with practiced flick of his wand. Pansy stood in front of his desk, resisting the impulse to wring her hands nervously. Rounding his desk, Snape sat abruptly in his chair, and pushed a piece of parchment toward her. "Go on," he hissed. Gingerly she picked it up and began reading.

"Explain," he ordered. Pansy scanned the memo and looked up.

"Yes sir. Those suffering from Lycanthropy should not be exposed to silver-based products of any kind. It exacerbates their condition. You taught us yourself, third year."

Snape slammed his hands to his desktop and stood angrily. Even with the desk between them he towered over her.

"Don't you dare pull that with me," he snarled. "You will explain why you've cost Slytherin forty points in the first month of school. And from Lupin, of all people."

Pansy hoisted her chin defiantly. "You've read it," she said, gesturing to Professor Lupin's update, which now lay abandoned on the desk. Snape returned from behind his desk, resisting the urge to throttle her.

"Not to mention you felt perfectly justified in gambling Slytherin points on a Gryffindor. Could your tastes be any more mundane?"

She remained sullen; however, her eyes softened a touch at Snape's barb.

"Woe is your distinct lack of subtlety, Miss Parkinson. Did you honestly imagine an attempt to poison The Boy Who Lived would go unchecked?"

"I did not poison him! As I explained to Professor Lupin, the recipe said 'pepper to taste'-"

"Indeed? So, I assume, then, that you also partook of your culinary masterpiece?" Snape asked, driving home the point. "No? I didn't think so. Miss Parkinson --- I do not like Harry Potter. I certainly do not care if you do not like Harry Potter. However, your move to undermine my position in this school through your childish attempts to rile Harry Potter will not be tolerated."

"What do you mean 'undermine your position'" Pansy asked, with just a hint of derision. Snape's voice took on a bone-chilling tone.

"What class are you in right now?"

"Potions."

"Very good. And who would be instructing you?"

"You are, sir."

"So that must make me. . ?"

"The Potions Master…" Pansy's voice was barely a whisper.

"And what other specific function do I serve for you?"

She gulped. "Head of House."

"So if a Slytherin were to tamper with Harry Potter's meal in any way, what do you think the logical conclusion might be --- erroneous or not --- as to where the idea may have come from?"

Pansy was silent. Snape's voice then snaked angrily to her core as he continued.

"You possess certain traits that exemplify Slytherin House; however, your bourgeois leanings and impetuous nature could lead one to wonder whether you were properly sorted."

Pansy's eyes filled.

"Refine yourself, Miss Parkinson. Remember: subtlety. Get back to class."

After class Harry stopped at the washroom next to the Potions dungeon to clean his hands, as they were a bit sticky from the anti-venom. Ron and Hermione had gone ahead and the corridor was fairly empty as he exited; however, two cloaked figures huddled in the corridor's corner caught his attention.

Draco Malfoy had one hand up against the stones of the castle and Harry could see him awkwardly rubbing Pansy's upper arm as she cried silently against his chest, her shoulders shaking. For a moment Malfoy seemed, well, somewhat human to Harry as he attended to Pansy, and he instinctively recalled a different scenario with Ron patting Hermione's head uncomfortably under similar circumstances. Malfoy's gaze shifted and he caught Harry observing.

"Go," he hissed, his grey eyes narrowing.

Harry went. And he wondered why on earth he couldn't bring himself to gloat.

Saturday found the Slytherins most elated at Ravenclaw's Quidditch victory over Gryffindor that day.

The emotion rather reminded Pansy of the Hufflepuff victory over Gryffindor during her third year --- the reaction had been similar. After the Hufflepuff-Gryffindor match two years prior, the Slytherin dungeons had erupted into a raucous party that had eventually become completely out of control. Several seventh years had conspired to quick-brew a rather intoxicating celebratory potion that shortly had many of the older Slytherins behaving most disgracefully indeed. The Head Boy and Girl had even been called in to lend their assistance. Professor Snape had personally directed the fourth years and below into the dormitories in order to place them under locking charms for their personal safety, while he dealt with the rowdy upperclassmen. Glimpsing him through the banisters as she was herded toward her dormitory, Pansy had honestly thought Percy Weasley might bluster himself to death at the scandalous prospect of first corralling, and then shoveling into their respective beds a dozen intoxicated Slytherins. Snape had been livid.

So far today, though, only Butterbeer and fizzy drinks had made their appearance in the dungeons. Perhaps this was owing to the fact that Snape had set himself up at a table in the middle of the Slytherin common room for the evening as a formidable pre-emptive strike. A looming stack of Potions essays was to his side. He attacked the papers with gusto, scrawling across them with an enormous red peacock quill, which emitted ominous puffs of Titian smoke from its feathery end as the professor dissected his students' work.

The entire House eventually turned out for the festivities, and even the gloomiest of the Slytherins celebrated. Green and silver bubbles filled the room, and sparkles and charm residue from exuberant wand work crackled throughout the dungeons. Someone from the Slytherin team released a handful of Snitches, and they whizzed about the room like tiny golden faeries.

Draco beckoned to Pansy from the stairs leading to the dormitories when Snape was looking in a different direction. Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, she sauntered over, nonchalant. He took her hand.

"Come on," he whispered conspiratorially, pulling her up the stairs. Quickly they mounted the steps and she was surprised when he led her down the hall toward his dormitory.

"Where are we--"

"Shh…" he whispered, and they carefully slipped inside the fifth year boys' room.

"What's going on?" she whispered, slightly trepidatious.

"Over here." He lead her toward his bed. Pansy could hear whispering coming from behind the drawn bed curtains. "Get in."

Peeking through the heavy curtains she found Blaise, Rowan, Crabbe and Goyle huddled on the bed. There seemed barely room for the four already there, much less two more!

"Pansy," Blaise whispered, her eyes alive with the conspiracy, "Rowan's got some Muggle spirits!"

"Oh," Pansy's eyes widened. She had never had alcohol before, aside from the occasional token glass of wine at her parents' formal dinner parties. "Oh, well, er. . .I don't know."

"It's all right," Blaise said. "You don't have to if you don't want to. But come on in anyway."

She turned to Draco. "Are you going to...?".

"Of course! So, let's see it, Clive," Draco ordered briskly, as he held the curtain open for Pansy to climb through. After they were situated Rowan waved his wand and cast a silencing spell. He then took two glass bottles from inside his cloak and handed them over to Draco, who passed the smaller bottle to Pansy, and then unscrewed the lid to the larger one. He took a whiff.

"Merlin's arse," Draco grimaced, crinkling his nose in distaste. "What the hell is this?"

"Dunno. I nicked it from my father's liquor cabinet when I was home last weekend," Clive answered, taking the bottle back. "Let's give it a try, shall we?" And with that, he took a generous plug from the bottle. Swallowing, Rowan was engulfed with full body shivers --- the involuntary kind. "Bleurgh!" He passed the bottle next to Goyle, who sucked down a mouthful.

Pansy unscrewed the lid from the smaller bottle she was holding and warily sniffed its contents. Oh, this isn't so bad, she thought. It smells like peaches. Tentatively, she raised the bottle to her lips and took a tiny sip. The liquor which coated her tongue was quite fruity, although clearly alcoholic. The aftertaste burned slightly. It wasn't unpleasant, though. She carefully took another small mouthful, and then passed the bottle to Blaise. She felt Draco shiver next to her as he forced the heavier liquor down his throat, before passing the bottle to Crabbe, who sputtered at his first mouthful of the amber liquid and involuntarily sprayed Draco's duvet. Without being told, Crabbe did a quick cleaning spell.

"Well," Pansy said, after her third sip, "I suppose this isn't so bad. And really. . .how much trouble could it be?"

Rowan kissed Blaise on the mouth, and together they tumbled backward off Draco's bed, through the curtains, and landed on the floor with a thwump. Blaise's familiar giggle soon rose from the floor, followed by Rowan's deeper chuckle.

"Crabbe, Goyle," Draco ordered, watching his roommates from under hooded lids, "go fetch us something to eat from the kitchens. And definitely bring us something to mix this bilge with." He gestured at the bottle of whiskey, which was now only two-thirds full. Apparently the two other boys weren't overly intoxicated, for they moved quite easily from the bed.

"You want anything in particular, Malfoy?" Goyle asked, as Crabbe put on his robes.

"I don't know. Something . . . decadent." Draco fixed his gaze on Pansy, and she felt a warm, liquidy wave wash through her. "And something that compliments whiskey, obviously."

"What does compliment whiskey?" Goyle seemed befuddled.

"Ask the house elves."

Goyle snorted. "Right. The house elves are going to instruct me on how to prepare mixed drinks."

"Just ask for the elf called Dobby," Draco said, taking another slug from the bottle and wiping his chin delicately with the back of his sleeve.

"Be careful," Pansy teased, feeling delightfully warm and fuzzy, "You shouldn't drink too much."

"I'm not. Anyhow, this is fun!"

"Too much alcohol can be rather inhibiting, you know --- especially for boys." She couldn't believe the words had actually left her mouth. Did I really just say that out loud?

"You don't say," he retorted, grinning lasciviously and letting the bottle drop to his side; he crawled closer. "You want me to be uninhibited, then?"

"Er, Malfoy?" Goyle interrupted reluctantly, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "What were you saying about the house elf?" Draco's eyes shifted back to Goyle.

"I said to ask for Dobby. Tell him I sent you. Trust me --- he won't say a thing," Draco flicked his hand at his sidekicks. "Go on." He returned his attention to Pansy, who had vaguely become aware of strange snuffling noises coming from the floor where Blaise and Rowan had fallen. "So, Pans . . . what about you? Are you feeling uninhibited?"

"Maybe," she said coyly, as she took a healthy swig of the fruity liquor; she re-capped the bottle, and then Draco's tongue was in her mouth and he pulled her down so she was laying on top of him. Clumsily, they fell backward against his pile of pillows at the head of his bed. After several minutes of kissing like this, Pansy pulled away and sat atop him, gazing downward, and then she slowly pulled her jumper over her head and threw it to the side of the bed.

"Hey," Blaise's voice came, a teasing edge to it, "are you two being naughty?"

"Aren't you?" Pansy shot back.

"Very."

"So don't let us keep you."

Pansy knew enough about sex to understand what she felt pressing against her as she sat on Draco's pelvis, even though she had never experienced anything like it before; however, she was unsure how to next proceed. Draco sat, propped up slightly against his pillows, and he wasn't moving --- he regarded her with a lazy gaze. She shifted slightly and he swallowed, and then moved his hands to her hips, hooking his thumbs into the waist of her skirt.

"Do that again," he whispered, pressing his hands into her hips --- pressing her down against him.

"Do what again?" she whispered back.

"What you just did. That was . . . really good."

"You mean . . . just move?"

He nodded. Gingerly, she shifted her position again and a sound escaped from Draco's throat and his eyes closed. She moved against him again and he opened his eyes --- he almost looked surprised. Smiling naughtily, Pansy moved against him again and again, enjoying the liquidy feeling gathering in her belly and pelvis. Draco sat up and moved his hands from her hips and began unbuttoning her blouse, kissing her deeply. She grasped him around the chest, right under his armpits, and her breathing became shallow as she let him push her blouse back over her shoulders.

For a moment she felt completely sober --- and incredibly scared. Swallowing, she bravely held his gaze until he dropped his eyes to take her in. She simply couldn't bear to watch him examine her, so instead she held tight to him as distant memories flashed fuzzily through her brain: Seven-year-old Draco chasing her with a garter snake across the Malfoy grounds; the small, wan boy flopped on his stomach on her bed, reading Martin Miggs quietly as she played nearby with her beautiful dollhouse; watching him be Sorted; the wondrous first feelings of his requited interest. An intrusive thought began beating at her. What if I am in any way disappointing to him? Her eyes stung; she was definitely frightened and her heart began to pound.

He had found the clasp of her bra and was fingering it. "Take it off?" he asked quietly, tilting his head inquisitively.

"Not while you're fully dressed."

He smirked and reached behind his head and, grabbing his jumper by the back of the collar, pulled it over his head, discarding it onto the floor, and then unbuttoned his shirt. Shaking it free from his arms, he let her look. "Better?"

She nodded, and reached for the bottle again. After taking a swig she handed it to him. He took a drink, capped it and placed it on his night table.

"Go ahead, then," she said. He reached around her back and fumbled with the clasp for a moment, but was ultimately successful. Pansy closed her eyes as she felt her undergarment slide off and she heard him suck in his breath as she was revealed.

"Open your eyes, Pansy." She did and found him looking remarkably unguarded. He touched her tentatively. "Oh my God . . . I think you are beautiful," he whispered --- so quietly, she barely caught the words.

She could only nod, her eyes shining luminously.

"Pansy," Blaise slurred from the floor, "Your bra just fell on me…" Pansy rolled her eyes.

"Well, maybe you should put it on, then, because I'll bloody well wager you're not wearing one either." Draco smirked at her retort, and moved his hands over her, exploring her upper body in earnest. It felt good; she resumed her prior rocking. She could feel him through her knickers, hard against her, and she liked it.

"I like this," she whispered breathlessly into his ear. He slid one hand up her thigh, all the way up to the edge of her knickers, and under the elastic. There. He leaned back against the pillows again, watching her, his hand moving languidly.

"And do you like this, too?"

Oh Gods. She stopped moving against him, unable to adequately coordinate herself under his touch. Yes. I. Do. "Not so hard," she whispered and he lightened his pressure. What if he thinks I'm a tart? What if he thinks this is gross? Do I look silly? "Stop," she said, suddenly afraid of expressing herself in this way.

"I don't want to," he said, rubbing her slowly. His eyes were glassy.

She pulled away from him anyway, not wanting to be so vividly on display, and layed down next to him on the bed. He turned to face her and their bare chests crushed together. It was really a warm and lovely feeling being skin-to-skin, very new and exciting. Soon he had rolled her underneath him, and he began moving against her this time, kissing her all the while. A familiar, tingling sensation began building in her pelvis --- for Pansy wasn't at all unlearned about her own body --- and she sighed deeply and clung to him. Oh yes . . .

"What's that noise?" Draco muttered, his head popping up.

"Oh God, Clive!" Pansy could hear Blaise scrambling around on the floor. "Gross!" Blaise bolted through the curtains and perched at the foot of Draco's bed. Her arms were crossed over her bare breasts, although she still had on her skirt, knee socks and shoes. Draco's eyebrows soared. He then dropped his head to Pansy's chest.

"Zabini," he said, quite evenly, considering the level of intrusion, "has anyone ever told you that you have perfectly wretched timing?"

Blaise was affronted. "Well, excuse me, but Clive is being sick! He's thrown up all over my blouse and jumper! Go get me a shirt, Malfoy."

Sighing, Draco reluctantly rolled off of Pansy and ran his fingers through his mussed hair as he sat on the side of his bed. Blaise was weaving slightly, side to side, where she sat. Draco peeked over the side at Clive.

"Oh bloody hell, old man," he groaned, his nose crinkling in distaste. "He's a hearty eater, that one. Pansy, do a cleaning spell, would you?"

She snorted. "I will not! Honestly . . ."

Sighing again, Draco reached for his wand and managed a decent cleaning charm, considering he was quite lightheaded. Clive lolled uselessly on the floor.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Draco said, with a swish and flick. Leaving Clive to float unattended for a moment, he raided his dresser and tossed Blaise a t-shirt. Pansy buttoned up her own blouse and hopped down from the bed, stumbling slightly as her feet hit the floor. She was definitely affected by the alcohol, but she did not feel sick. Rather she felt as though she was viewing the world through the bottom of a glass --- the lights seemed haloed auras. When she moved her eyes, it was as if her vision wasn't tracking quite smoothly enough. Her ears and cheeks felt hot. And she still felt quite tingly from Draco.

As stealthily as possible, she and Blaise stole to the door and opened it carefully. They were greeted by Crabbe and Goyle, who were poised to enter, their hands laden with plates of food and a jug of some kind of drink.

"Gods!" Blaise exclaimed, jumping backward in surprise, and bringing a hand to her throat. The two boys were equally startled and one of the ham, brie, and red-leaf lettuce croissants they had brought slid from the plate in Crabbe's hand and plopped onto the floor. Draco motioned for them to come in.

"Put that stuff down and help us get Clive into the showers," he whispered as Crabbe and Goyle tiptoed past. When they had returned, the five of them together peeked out of the room and looked down the hall furtively. Several shadowy figures were heading into the seventh year boys' room. Pressing themselves quietly into the shadows against the wall, they waited until the door had shut before proceeding.

"Come on," Blaise urged, stealing down the hall. Stealthily, the group meandered down the corridor, trying their very best to not bump Clive's head into the banisters which overlooked the common room. They managed to get him to the boys bathroom without being seen, and Pansy and Blaise ducked out as quickly as possible to avoid detection. They dashed to their room to change clothes. It was still quite early and, as they had been adjusting the shower-head on Clive, Draco had suggested a walk on the grounds after the boys were finished with their unseemly task.

"Well?" Blaise asked, once they were back in their room, as she fastened a clean bra and snapped it into place. Pansy smiled cheekily.

"Well what?" she said, coyly.

"How was it?"

"It was bloody marvelous!" Pansy said, grinning fully now as she selected a clean jumper. "Absolutely wicked!"

"See? I've always told you there's nothing to be afraid of," Blaise said matter-of-factly, pulling a sweatshirt over her head.

"I was kind of afraid, actually."

"It gets better with practice."

"Blaise, you've never had sex...have you?"

"God, no!" Blaise laughed, shaking her head. "I would have told you if I had."

"How far have you…" Pansy was embarrassed to pry.

"I can show a boy what I like," Blaise said slyly, "if that's what you mean."

Pansy sat on her bed. She had also put on a new bra --- the one she had worn earlier now missing in action somewhere under Draco's bed --- and she had pulled her favorite baggy jumper on over her undergarments, but wore nothing else yet. Sitting cross-legged, she pulled the jumper down over her knees.

"I. . .wanted to," she admitted. "I totally wanted to. Have sex, that is. What if Clive hadn't thrown up? Gods, I don't even want to think of what might have happened."

"Whatever you wanted to have happen would have, I suppose." Blaise had finished pulling on clean knee socks and now she was stepping into a new skirt. "Look, there's no easy answer--- at least I don't think so. But there is gut instinct, and my mother's always told me to trust mine. So trust yours. You know about the potions?"

"Yes."

"Well, okay then. You have all the information you need. But, my mother also says that having information doesn't mean you're obligated to act on it. It just gives you options--- that's all."

Pansy nodded.

"And be honest, Pansy. Would you have really wanted your first time to be there, like that? Sneaking around the dorms with Draco, all the while Rowan's puking all over the floor, and Crabbe and Goyle are lurking in the shadows with sandwiches?" she snorted. "I hardly think so. Come on --- finish getting dressed." Blaise buckled her shoes and moved over to the mirror to fix up her hair.

In front of an entirely different mirror in the seventh year boys' room, C.R. Waldvogel smoothed his dark hair and gave his reflection a final once-over. Baring his teeth, he checked for any unwanted remnants of dinner before reaching for his robes.

"A pretty picture you make," his mirror commented, "But it's time to start grooming your insides. I can see more than you think…"

The mirror's insights were nothing new. C.R. snorted softly and pointed his wand. "Fracta!"

The mirror splintered. He knew it would take the remainder of the evening to completely repair itself, and thought this rather amusing. He was beginning to find the mirror's deprecating observations a trifle irritating. They had been exchanging insults since the term had started.

"I'm only looking after your best interests, Dearie," the mirror said, its voice garbled and thick, as though it were speaking underwater.

C.R. was different than most people. He knew he didn't see the world in the exactly the same light; however, he found his personal microcosm to be far more interesting and exciting than the general population's. His instincts were unique. On the (very rare) occasions he would actually compare his own views with more typical convention, he was unable to come away with any indication of a deficiency on his part, and he genuinely could not fathom why anyone would knowingly choose a mundane, pedestrian life. He craved excitement and thrill --- in general, he was an extremely tactile individual. However, C.R. was also very adept, as the Muggles would say, at "flying under the radar." He made excellent grades. He was in his third year of being a prefect for Slytherin and his instructors viewed him as a commanding and impressive student leader. And since the girls had started fluttering their lashes at him during his second year, he had yet to lack for romantic attention --- female or male alike, truth told. The latter actually didn't bother him in the slightest. He was open to anything that might further his goals or assuage his monstrous inner hedonist.

C.R. had extremely wide-ranging proclivities.

He turned to leave, and just then his dormitory door banged open. The sixth year prefect, Evan Rosier IV --- called "Fourth" for short --- and Marcus Flint spilled into the room.

"Hey, there you are!" Fourth said, with a friendly smile. "It's too bad we pulled patrol on a Quidditch night, eh? I'm tired enough that I'm almost wishing Gryffindor had won --- there'd be a lot less to worry about that way."

"But, another Gryffindor win?" Marcus Flint grimaced. "Anything, but that."

"Who knows?" C.R. said, brushing a speck of lint from his robes. "At least game nights are usually more interesting than a normal one. What's more, Truly has promised me...a treat after we're done with the rounds, if you know what I mean. And that's something to look forward to."

Fourth raised his eyebrows suggestively, leering. "Truly Savoy said she'd meet you? I'm impressed. I've heard she's a tough nut to crack."

C.R. smiled. "Not really." Just don't tell anyone, okay C.R.? Truly had pleaded. If anyone in Gryffindor finds out I'm meeting a Slytherin…He had earnestly promised her that he wouldn't tell a soul about their plan to meet in the Astronomy Tower, and had sealed it with his most sincere smile. And she had believed him.

"Flint, do you want to keep your eyes peeled here in the dungeon?" C.R. asked, as the three boys made their way down the dormitory steps.

"I guess. How long do you think you'll be?"

"Probably no more than forty-five minutes." The three boys stopped next to Professor Snape, who was still working on his stack of essays. "Sir. Rosier and Waldvogel reporting for rounds."

"Go on, then." Snape didn't look up from his essays.

C.R. and Fourth swept from the dungeons, leaving Flint at the mercy of their rowdy housemates. The soles of their stiff leather oxfords echoed throughout the empty corridors as they began their duties.

"Take the library, Waldvogel," Fourth said as they reached the entrance hall, "and meet me back here when you're done. We can do the staircases together, and then the castle grounds. I'll do the Great Hall." Waldvogel nodded and breezed up the stairs to the library. This wasn't so bad--- most students were celebrating in their common rooms tonight--- and it was a Saturday --- so he didn't expect much activity in the library.

Madame Pince sat at her desk.

"Good evening, Madame Pince," C.R. said, smiling, "I'm here for the rounds. May I please have the key?"

"Of course," Madame Pince opened a drawer and pulled out a very old-fashioned looking key, which was affixed to a purple rabbit's foot. "It's been quiet here all night."

C.R. headed to the Restricted Section and unlocked the heavy gates with an easy click. A cursory check assured him the protected section was, indeed, empty. Pulling his wand, he quietly muttered a counter-spell, which would briefly release the wards on the Restricted Section; however, the spell would last for a minute at most, so he would have to be efficient. As a prefect, C.R. was, of course, trained in the basic wards system in place at Hogwarts. Although he would never have enough information to do more than cause tiny glitches in the system, he took full advantage of whatever he could manage. He strode to the east wall, positioned one of the rolling ladders affixed to the front of the shelves, and climbed it. Perusing the titles efficiently, he selected a volume on the history of the Cruciatus Curse he had been eyeing for several weeks. It was of diminutive size and fit easily into the deep inner pocket of his robes. Glancing around a final time, to assure he was still unobserved, he hurried down the ladder, reset the wards, dimmed the lights, and made his way out of the closed wing. He locked the door behind him with a firm hand and returned the key to Madame Pince with a polite smile and a pleasant word, and then set off to check the stacks.

"Granger," he barked, upon spotting the familiar Gryffindor presence, "Don't you have rounds tonight, too?"

"No. I traded with Padma."

C.R. ceded the point and continued on his way. He managed to nick ten points from Ravenclaw when he came upon a couple snogging in the Biographical section, and he shaved five points from a Gryffindor first-year for falling asleep on an ancient text and drooling onto the cover. As he worked his way toward the periodicals he unexpectedly caught his right shoelace under the sole of his left shoe and almost brained himself on the corner of a heavy wooden shelf; muttering, he bent and re-tied his oxford. As he stood, something caught his eye. Well, someone really.

A girl sat alone at a table.

There were no books or papers in front of her and C.R. couldn't see a rucksack anywhere either. He started forward, but then was inexplicably compelled to hold back. Unconsciously, he rested his arm on one of the surrounding stacks and observed her. She was very still. More than five minutes passed and still the girl did not move; she seemed to be contemplating the inky blackness that was the lake through the massive windows casing the library. Finally the fingers of her left hand began unconsciously plucking at the tabletop, although she did not move otherwise. He stepped out of the shadows.

"Excuse me," he said to the girl.

She jumped at the sound of his voice and turned. C.R. caught the flash of green and silver from her robes.

"Oh. you're a Slytherin," he said, noting the obvious.

"Yes." She trained her enormous dark eyes on him.

"What are you doing just sitting here like that?"

"What, am I breaking a rule?"

"No need to get testy."

"Look, with all due respect, I'm quite sure if I'm not breaking any rules then you won't mind leaving me be," she said firmly, before turning away. He remained there, and studied her for a few moments longer. The girl didn't seem depressed or in any kind of funk --- prefects were trained to spot the obvious. C.R. wasn't sure why he was intrigued at her contemplative nature --- quiet girls were either prudish and boring, or insufferable know-it-alls. Shrugging, he turned on his heel.

When he was finished in the library, he made his way back to the entrance hall and met up with Fourth again.

"I'll need to stop by the dorm before we head out," C.R. said. "I've got a library book that I want to drop off."

They started down the stairs. They rounded the first turn in the stairwell and were nearly trampled by Pansy and Draco, who were emerging from the dungeons, laughing and poking each other.

"Did you smell something funny?" Fourth asked after the two younger students had made their apologies and passed, his brows furrowing.

C.R. had instantly recognized the smell of Muggle alcohol coming from the two fifth years; he, of course, wasn't opposed to taking a nip or two when the opportunity presented itself. With a smirk, he inhaled dramatically. "Ah, it's the unmistakable scent of inbreeding!" he scoffed, watching Pansy and Draco disappear up the stairs. "Smell that, Fourth? It's a cross between old money and a third armpit, don't you think?"

Fourth laughed. "Well, then I'll bloody well wager most of us down there smell funny, eh?" he said with a sly grin, indicating toward the direction of the Slytherin dungeons with his chin. "Besides, a third armpit means a third arm. And Merlin knows we blokes would dearly appreciate a third arm at times."

After C.R. secured the stolen library book in his room, he and Fourth left the castle through an infrequently used underground passage, which had been designed as an emergency exit. The tunnel let them out onto the grounds right below the greenhouses; the two prefects set about completing their routine ground patrol.

On the shore of the Hogwarts lake, lying on the banks of fresh grass, Draco and Pansy picked right up where they had left off before.

After they had taken care of Clive, and redressed, they had run from the castle, laughing with one another and holding hands once they were under the cover of darkness. The sky was black but for the stars, and the fresh air felt quite invigorating. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before they found themselves lying on the cool grass next to the lake. It was a slightly chilly night, but Draco knew a clever warming charm, which kept them nice and toasty.

His hands were everywhere and she couldn't help but respond. They had returned for the whiskey bottle in Draco's room before setting forth, and he had mixed it with fizzy drinks from the kitchens that Crabbe and Goyle had brought back. By the time they finished it off, the night was well on its way to becoming a blur of slow-motioned memories and spotty impressions.

Now, with Draco nestled firmly between her thighs and the sparkling stars above, Pansy felt very content, indeed.

"Why do I like you so much?" he whispered stupidly, after a while. The alcohol completely dulled Pansy's ability to draw a clever retort.

"Because I like you so much," she said simply.

Her fears had faded quickly on an amber wave of spirits, and she found herself feeling bold and free and, well, uninhibited, so when Draco hooked his fingers into the waist of her knickers and tugged them downward, she didn't object. In fact, she even lent her assistance by tilting her hips upward for a moment. She wanted to keep her skirt on, though. He settled against her again with a frustrated sigh.

"What's the matter?" she asked, in between kisses.

"I just. . . I just want to feel you," he said, in a strange, longing sort of way, "I wish-"

Her fingers were fumbling at his trousers, and she unzipped them clumsily. Instinctively, he sucked in his stomach to give her better access and gladly let her explore. She was fascinated.

"Oh...wow," she breathed wondrously, her eyes wide; he crushed his mouth to hers.

Draco wasn't exactly sure when or how his trousers ended up pushed down around his thighs. Although he still had his shorts on, it was still tonnes better than having both garments between them. It seemed Pansy wasn't able to get close enough to him for her liking; she squirmed fitfully underneath him as he worked himself against her.

"Oh God…please…" she gasped, wriggling underneath him. His movements became more coordinated as he got the hang of it, for it wasn't like it was time-turner science or anything. She wrapped her arms around his back and urged him on, and Draco actually thought something was wrong with her when she suddenly bit down on his collarbone and made snuffling noises into his cloak. And then she slackened, supine on the grass.

"Pansy?" he asked, slowing. She stared at him sleepily.

Draco's heart dropped into his guts. He had injured her. "Pans! It was -- it was an accident! Are you going to be okay?"

"You made me…" she whispered. "Draco, you made me-"

For a moment he truly didn't understand, but then the realisation hit. "I. . . did?" A wide grin split his face. All right! Draco took a ferocious mental strut. He found himself wanting to tell her something --- anything --- to mark the auspicious occasion, but his tongue felt thick and unruly.

"Pansy," he started, staring down at her, still so painfully aroused, "I…well, what I mean to say…" Just tell her. Tell her. Pansy drew her fingers lazily across his cheek and down his neck, and then her hand fell aside with a soft thump.

"Oh, don' worry about it, Draco." Pansy was thoroughly sated and her eyelids were heavy. "You don' have to say anything. Just. . . let me make you feel good, too. Will you show me how to make you feel good, too?" Gladly. He didn't need to be asked twice. Rolling onto his back, and dragging her with him, he put his hand over hers. Her ministrations were rather tentative and clumsy, and Draco shortly began feeling a bit frantic. She had curled up next to him and snuggled her head on his chest, and it wasn't long before her hand was completely still.

"Pansy?"

Silence.

"Pans? Are you--"

"WHO'S THERE?" a voice suddenly boomed forth and Draco was suddenly blinded by beams of light from two wands.

"Huh?" he asked, perplexed.

"Malfoy! What the bloody hell's going on?" Shit. Draco could make out Rosier and Waldvogel standing over him and Pansy. Fourth took a look at the two fifth years on the ground and carefully nudged Pansy's arm away from Draco's shorts with his foot, stifling a snort.

"What the hell?" Draco protested, most aggrieved. Rosier hauled him up by his robes and Draco felt the cool air assail his legs as his trousers continued their downward journey and pooled around his ankles.

Waldvogel had stooped to the ground and when he came up again he was twirling Pansy's knickers around his index finger.

"Lose something, Malfoy?" the prefect's gaze was hard and flat. Draco gulped.

"No."

"Do up your trousers."

He did, glaring.

Rosier was amused. "Quite a show, there, old man," he said with a wink. Draco managed a weak grin, but his crotch ached viciously --- even through the alcohol, he could feel it. Waldvogel prodded Pansy's backside with his foot.

"Parkinson!" he barked. Pansy didn't respond. By the light of the other two boys' wands, Draco could see just a hint of Pansy's upper thigh, right where it curved up to meet her buttock. Her skirt had bunched up slightly in the back and her robes were completely askew. Suddenly, fiercely, Draco didn't want either of these boys even imagining Pansy's thigh, and he moved to block her from Rosier's view, and reached down to straighten her skirt. Waldvogel still held Pansy's pink knickers in one crooked finger and he had crossed his arms over his chest --- they looked very strange indeed, highlighted vividly against the black wool of Waldvogel's school robes.

"Explain yourself," the prefect ordered.

"I would think a seventh year wouldn't need that particular talk from me," Draco retorted smoothly, pissed at their intrusion. "I'm sure Snape has a book you could borrow."

"Don't be a fucking punk, Malfoy," Waldvogel said, his lip curling slightly.

"C.R., leave him alone," Fourth placated, politely covering Pansy with his own robes, then pulling his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa." Pansy floated gracefully up into the air. Fourth secured her arms over her belly with a binding charm, so they wouldn't accidentally scrape against the ground on the way back to the castle. He turned to Waldvogel. "Should we take her to Madame Pomfrey?"

"I suppose so. Better to be safe than sorry. Fourth, go ahead and take her." C.R. turned to Draco. "Malfoy, I'm going to save your sorry arse this time, but you owe me." The older prefect's eyes were unreadable, although his tone was perfectly light. Rosier had already set off with Pansy toward the castle. "You really need to learn the art of discretion. You're both prefects! Everyone knows the grounds are patrolled, yet here you two are, in plain view -- rolling around in the dirt like a pair of randy Nifflers."

Draco said nothing. He pulled his robes back on with an irritated snap, demonstrating his displeasure. "Hurry up." Waldvogel turned and headed back to the castle. Muttering, Draco dropped to his knees and felt around on the ground until he found the flask of juice and whiskey he and Pansy had been sharing. When he was quite sure Waldvogel was far enough ahead, he unscrewed the lid and drained it, coughing from the heady fumes as the last drops slid down his gullet.

Once Pansy was safely ensconced in the hospital wing, and had been given a sobering potion (which had mixed results when Muggle alcohol was involved; Madame Pomfrey claimed anyone daring to play with Muggle liquor deserved its wretched side effects), C.R. was done with his rounds and headed back to the Slytherin common room. Fourth was nowhere in sight, and Flint was chatting up two wary-looking sixth-year girls. Snape was still grading papers, oblivious to the students around him. At times, C.R. liked to just walk about the common room without any particular destination, and see what information on his housemates he could filter out from the various snippets of conversation.

Rounding the fireplace, he encountered a group of third and fourth years doing silly wandwork. The group of younger Slytherins were crowded around three girls, who were conjuring various objects. One girl conjured a Muggle blow-up ball and sent it with a flick of her wrist toward her friend. It was a poor toss, and the ball came scuttling toward C.R. He scooped it up and walked toward the group. A girl, whose back had been to him, turned --- it was the girl from the library. The smile faded from her face. In response, C.R. put on his most brilliant grin.

"Don't worry," he said, walking toward her confidently, "No trouble. Here's your ball." He handed her the toy and the girl's eyes relaxed slightly.

"Thanks," she said.

"So, you made it back from the library, then?"

"Oh. Yes, thanks."

"Astrid!" Mina called out, "Come on, throw me the ball!"

Astrid started to turn back to her friends; quickly, C.R. nicked the ball from her hands and tossed it to Mina, who caught it with a smirk. Startled, Astrid turned back to him.

"So, your name is Astrid? That's a very unique name," he stuck his hand out. "C.R. Waldvogel." As if she didn't know.

Tentatively she took it. "Astrid Lestrange."

Ah, that's right. Lestrange. C.R. thought her hand was quite smooth and cool.

"It's nice to meet you, Astrid. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important." He flicked his eyes toward the game, which had resumed.

"No. Just being silly," she smiled, showing her even, white teeth. She had the largest brown eyes C.R. had ever seen.

"You're a fourth year, then?" he asked.

"Third," she said, flushing slightly. "I could be a fourth year, but my birthday's fifth November. I just missed the cut-off."

"So you're almost fifteen, then. I see." He had thought she looked a bit older than the typical third-year.

"Yes. Mina, too. Her birthday's in December."

He wondered how this girl had escaped his notice --- he was certainly noticing her now. It was highly unusual for him to be overly intrigued with, well, anyone really. It happened on occasion, though. The confirmation of her age...pleased him.

"Do you go to Hogsmeade on town weekends?" he asked smoothly.

"Sometimes."

"Next time, I'll buy you a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks."

"Oh...er, well, you don't have to do that." Astrid felt her stomach plunge like an anvil. "I mean, thank you and all, but I really shouldn't..."

"Your parents would object?" he asked, innocently enough. She flushed.

"Not exactly."

C.R.'s attention was suddenly caught by another individual making their way --- lurching, actually --- through the common room. He craned his neck.

"Shit," he muttered, under his breath, feeling his anger rise.

"I'm sorry," she began; he cut her off.

"No, no! It's not you. It's just prefect business rearing its ugly head," C.R. rolled his eyes, then delivered another stellar smile. Astrid regarded him with suspicious interest, but returned the smile. "Anyhow, Astrid, it was very nice meeting you, and I'm very sorry I disturbed you in the library. So you must let me make it up to you --- just one Butterbeer. I promise."

"Well, it's nice of you to offer."

"I'd best be off, but I'll see you around."

"Okay," she said, still smiling. She could help it --- the attention was very flattering.

Draco stumbled into the loo, and navigated the room with the grace of a drunken bludger as he wove his way across the floor. He had gone to the hospital wing to check on Pansy, but Madame Pomfrey had angrily ordered him from the infirmary--- Pansy was fine, thank you very much; she just needed to sleep. And so did he, according to the tetchy nurse.

Placing one hand on the top of the urinal to steady himself, Draco fumbled with his zipper with his free hand, feeling as if his fingers were breakfast links. Everything swam in front of him--- he'd definitely crossed over the line from being pleasantly intoxicated to being rip-roaring drunk. As he relieved himself, a voice suddenly came from behind him.

"Don't piss on your shoe, Malfoy."

"Huh?" Jerking, Draco looked over his shoulder, and invariably did just that. C.R. Waldvogel stood behind him, with his hands in his trousers pockets, rocking heel-to-toe, as he surveyed the younger boy. His eyes flicked downward.

"I should take points from Slytherin for your unkempt toileting habits." Draco followed his gaze and found the sole of his shiny black oxford surrounded by a dull, yellow puddle. He redirected his aim. Waldvogel continued, "Not to mention you're a sloppy drunk. Now finish up and then we're going to have a little chat about house propriety."

"'Kay," Draco slurred. He was too drunk to care. He was done taking a piss, but where the bloody hell was his zipper? Struggling with his shorts and trousers, he lurched from the urinal. Waldvogel caught him by the scruff of his jumper and shoved him roughly against the bathroom wall.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Waldvogel inquired, his blue eyes flat.

"Oh bugger off, Waldvogel. We were just having a bit of fun," Draco protested. "Celebratin' the Quiddish and all. Ravenclaw, you know…"

"Oh, really? Who's 'we'? Hmm?"

Draco felt a tiny stab of uncertainty in the back of his muddled mind, but he held Waldvogel's glare without wavering and tried to hoist his chin in his characteristic style; however, he quickly found that contemplating the ceiling of the bathroom caused an unpleasant whirling sensation in his gut.

"Don't want to say, do you? I can understand that. You don't want to get your friends in trouble--- you wouldn't want them to be angry with you, right? Maintaining friendships can be ever so challenging, don't you think?"

Draco remained silent.

"Although. . . perhaps the nuances of friendship aren't your particular forte," Waldvogel said, releasing Draco's jumper and smoothing the puckered wool with the palm of his hand.

"It won't happen again," Draco said clearly, belying his true state of intoxication. The prefect held his gaze, and he leaned in until his face was only inches from Draco's.

"I saw her, Malfoy. I saw you taking Pansy into your room. She's already lost forty points for Slytherin since the start of school. And now she's poised to lose even more," Waldvogel clucked, feigning pity. "What a shame. Pansy's not really the kind of girl to be shoveling shit in the owlery. So, Draco. . .are you fucking her or what?"

Draco's sang-froid shifted instantly. He was exceptionally able to sense danger, no matter his condition --- it was an inherent Malfoy trait. Even in his current state of inebriation, his senses prickled intuitively, and he fully recognised predation when he saw it.

"Look, Waldvogel," he began, feigning cool nonchalance, "I'll take the points for Pansy, and then let's just forget about this, okay? I was going to bed-"

"Oh, so you're not fucking her, then. That's rather quaint. How'd a Malfoy get to be fifteen--- almost sixteen --- and still be a virgin? The boys in six and seven are going to absolutely howl when they hear. What must your father think? He's practically a legend with the girls in this house, you know. Actually, if I recall correctly, he's not convinced of your sexuality at all, is he? That's what we're all heard anyway."

Draco swallowed hard. The prefect shifted to Draco's right side and leaned up against the wall, his left arm resting casually above Draco's head, his right hand at Draco's chest.

"Little Malfoy boy," Waldvogel taunted sotto voce, "playing Quidditch, tying Harry Potter's shoelaces together in class, and holding on for dear life to the back of his Daddy's dressrobes." His lips were right at Draco's ear. "So, I suppose it's no wonder you don't have time for...more grownup pastimes."

"You play Quidditch."

"I do other things as well."

"I -- well, we were going to---"

"But you didn't. Have you even kissed her yet?"

"You were at the duel, you prig!" Draco blurted, suddenly emboldened. Not to mention at the shore of the lake just now..."You know I have."

"Mmm hmm. Yes, that was quite amusing. How was your first kiss anyway?" the older boy asked cunningly, laying on the false camaraderie. "Did you like her tongue?"

"We -- I didn't-"

"No tongue? That is so pathetic."

"Oh, sod off already."

"What exactly did you and Pansy do tonight?"

Draco said nothing, and he stared defiantly ahead.

"Tell me now, or I'll start taking points. And really--- haven't you embarrassed Slytherin enough?"

"We…drank," Draco said slowly.

"And did you use your tongue when you…drank?"

Draco caught the innuendo; he nodded warily.

"Well, at least that. So, now that we've established you've actually met it, do you like Pansy's tongue?"

This could not possibly be happening. Draco actually felt ill as he stood pressed against the cold tile of the bathroom wall, the shiny lights and fixtures swimming in his vision. More than ever before he wanted to call out for his father, and this in and of itself infuriated him. He already knew nobody would ever know of this altercation. He'd rather die than admit to it.

"Why do you care?" he asked belligerently. "Sounds like you're not getting any."

Waldvogel's breath was warm against Draco's ear as he chuckled. "Oh, come on--- surely you can do better than that. I knew more girls by the time I was fourteen than you ever will. Really--- that was a rather uncreative attempt at diversion, Malfoy. Now, tell me…what did Pansy's tongue feel like in your mouth?"

Draco looked at the floor, clenching his jaw. Then he made a break for the bathroom door. Waldvogel caught him by the scruff of his neck and slammed him back against the hard marble wall of the washroom.

"Ten points from Slytherin for disobeying a prefect," the older boy hissed.

"…warm." Draco's voice was barely audible. Pansy would have no way of knowing of his betrayal; nonetheless, shame sliced through his gut.

"Louder please."

"I said warm."

"Good, good. That's the spirit. There's nothing wrong with talking about sex, Draco. Is Pansy good at kissing? Does she please you?"

Draco nodded warily --- not that he had anyone else to compare to, but yes. He loved kissing Pansy.

"Have you gotten her to take her clothes off for you yet? Oh, wait. I suppose I can deduce you've been somewhat successful in that department, seeing as I've still got her knickers in my pocket from your little lake tryst. Have you seen her without all her clothes on, though?"

"Without her top."

"And it was dark down by the lake, so I expect you couldn't really see. Sometimes it's more fun to feel than to see, though. Have you felt her yet?"

"Oh, fuck you, Waldvogel," Draco sneered, mustering his bravado. "I am not talking about Pansy anymore."

"Ten points from Slytherin."

"Fuck you."

"Ten points from Slytherin, again."

"And ten fuck yous to Slytherin."

Waldvogel slammed his open palm into Draco's chest, causing his head to knock against the tiled wall. His chest heaving with anger and adrenaline, Draco's grey eyes narrowed to angry slits and he reached for his wand. Waldvogel caught his wrist and gave a slight twist.

"This is why you should never let yourself get sloppily drunk, Malfoy. It's vulgar, and you'll find yourself doing very stupid things…like leaving your wand on your bedside table. Now, tell me about Pansy, Draco. Tell me about her…breasts, I suppose. Yes, I really want to know about her breasts. Are they nice?"

For a moment Draco closed his eyes.

"It's points from Pansy next," Waldvogel hissed. "She'll be spending the rest of the term with Filch."

"They're nice."

"How nice?"

"Very nice."

"That's much better, Draco. Pansy would be pleased that you hold her breasts in such high esteem. How did they feel in your hands?"

"Firm…"

"What did you think of her nipples?" Silence. "I'll bet they're perfectly pink."

Fuck, Draco thought. Thinking about Pansy's breasts --- even in this bizarre situation --- was causing him to become aroused again. I should have stopped for a wank in the bushes…

"I'm a breast man, myself. But, we can move on. So you got into her knickers, did you?"

Draco nodded, his gaze flat. Just get through this…whatever this is, he prompted himself.

"You two were in quite a state when Fourth and I found you. Your pants were down, her knickers were off --- so, I'm curious. Did you manage to… please her?"

Draco knew exactly what Waldvogel was getting at. "Yes. I. Did," he answered haughtily, unable to suppress his swaggering inner-adolescent.

"What did that feel like?"

"What, you've never had an orgasm?" Draco asked coolly, considering. "That's a shame. They're really nice. And relaxing. You could do with a bit of relaxation."

Waldvogel's eyes flickered, and he shoved his hand roughly down the front of Draco's trousers. Draco erupted into a writhing corporeal mass of fight-or-flight energy, striking out blindly at the older boy; however, he was so intoxicated he was unable to efficiently coordinate his escape efforts and it was but a second before Waldvogel's left forearm was pressed forcefully into Draco's neck, practically gagging him as he worked his hand inside of Draco's trousers.

"You like this?"

"Stop it." Waldvogel's forearm against his throat made him cough.

"You like this. I can feel how much you like it."

"No..." Mortification washed through Draco--- his body was betraying him, horribly, for he was hard. His brain fractured into a jumbled amalgamation of frightening emotions and disbelief.

It had not occurred to Draco that people might not like him. Really not like him. Fear him? Yes. Were indifferent to him? Yes, that, too. In C.R. Waldvogel, Draco was absolutely encountering a person who did not like him. He had not had any consistent negative feedback regarding his own negative behavior --- and now he was getting it in a big, bad way. Yet, he knew there was something else underlying Waldvogel's behavior. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what it was. This was neither here nor there, though, as Draco desperately willed his body to not respond to the stimulation.

"No wonder your father thought you were gay --- you're already about to lose it."

"I am not GAY!" Draco hissed angrily. "Fuck you."

It was a physical response more than the psychological one necessary for true intimacy --- he knew this. Humiliation washed through his body in an icy wave. True, he was drunk and Waldvogel's hand was unfamiliar, so it took longer to climax than he could have managed on his own. The two prior --- interrupted --- sessions with Pansy soon proved to be too great a foe for him to overcome, and, despite his concerted efforts, bile rose in the back of his throat and Draco unwillingly passed the point of no return. With an involuntary shudder, he came --- into the hand and through the fingers of another boy.

Another boy.

Draco was momentarily frozen in humiliation before his mind began registering odd tidbits: the mutually exclusive scents of lemon cleaner and mildew, of urine, of Waldvogel's hair even --- for he was that close to the other boy. Vaguely, faint sounds from the common room filtered through his drunken stupor. The contrasting sounds of his own raspy breath in comparison to the even tones coming from his housemate seemed pronounced. Finally, Waldvogel pulled his hand away and patted Draco roughly on the cheek. He left a sticky dampness there.

"You do know I wasn't really going to take points, right Malfoy? I was just fucking with you. All in good fun, you know," he said, brutally smug. Waldvogel wiped his hand down the front of Draco's jumper, and then abruptly released him, immediately turning to leave the washroom. Off balance, Draco stumbled sideways and slid awkwardly down the wall, landing on the floor with a thud, his trousers still undone. As the prefect grasped the door's handle, he cocked his head slightly, as if alerted by a strange noise. He turned back, and his eyes were more alive than Draco had ever seen them. "You know --- what you said about needing a good orgasm? I have to admit you were right. I do feel more relaxed. Funny, that."

Then Waldvogel was gone and it was quiet and Draco was left alone in the lavatory.

His brain was reeling. After a moment, he managed to get to his hands and knees and he crawled past the urinals, through the puddle of his own piss and into a toilet stall, where he was violently sick.

My world purged from me,
I dwell here silent among the barked frenzy.
A king once was I, with riches boundless,
And bidding done by any man I prayed upon.
Taken from me by the fires of death, brimstone;
Out of hell they came to relinquish comfort,
My solace, my children, my dearest one, my city.
Hellfire, alone, I survived; wandering far into the foundations,
I am here.

~*~

The woman huddled in the corner of the cell, biting her hand to keep from screaming --- she knew if the dementors heard her crying out they would at the very least investigate. She had not made a sound since arriving at Azkaban eight months prior.

This offering to Lord Voldemort was almost complete, and for that the woman was grateful, for she was exhausted. Wave after wave of contractions came, yet still she managed to remain silent. After the latest wave of contractions subsided, she crawled across the uneven stone floor, and grasped the iron rail of her cot and pulled herself into a squatting position. This relieved the pain slightly, as it opened up her pelvis, and allowed her to regroup. She looked down at her rounded belly with its popping navel, and watched --- slightldetacheded --- as her stomach indented and the skin there actually rippled in the wake of her next contraction. Re-adjusting her grip on the iron posts of her bed, the woman rocked back and forth rhythmically, muttering quietly to herself as she held her frog-like position. The woman tried breathing exercises; however, they served only to make her throat bone dry and inadvertently triggered her gag reflex. Without warning, she heaved and brought up several spoonfuls of yellow bile. It's good, she thought, it's good. It's almost over. It meant the final stage of labour…

~*~

Here I sought the answers--
The answers to the corkscrewed world,
The crazed production of the Fallen,
Which daily doomed, I search the stone.
It is my only hindrance from the deepest black,
And now thou scandalous bastard reaps his iniquity before me.
I pour out, as never before, my fury;
My insides burn, dissolving my integrity;
My heart hardened, shriveled to the black pulp!'
Stretching of stiff leathery skin lurked in His ears
As the withered man crept to the frightened boy
And purged his breath from life giving lungs.
'Too long the victim, I again am the master!'

~*~

Within thirty minutes she felt the child's head slowly stretching her vaginal canal and the urge to bear down became irresistible --- feral really. She couldn't help the deep grunts, which escaped from her throat as she pushed. Again, she bit down on her hand to try and quell the noise, this time drawing blood. The head moved down further. A slow, deep, burning sensation began radiating through her perineum as the baby's head began to crown, and the woman thought she would surely split in half. The ring of fire, she thought, panting, strands of sweaty hair falling forward into her face. Her peripheral vision alerted her, and she jerked her head toward the door of her cell; a black, hooded, empty chasm of a being was framed in the small window of the cell door at her. Frantically, she bore down again, and an involuntary scream tore from her lips as the baby's head was born, emerging from her body with a gush of blood-tinged fluid, which splattered onto the cold, stone floor and the woman's feet. Reaching down with one shaky hand, she managed to awkwardly guide the baby from her body with a hand to the back of its head and shoulders; as it slipped from her body she placed it carefully on the floor of her cell before she lost her sweaty grip on the iron railing and fell backward, and sat squarely on her rear with a cry. The infant's startle reflex was triggered by the cold flagstone against its body and it began squalling between its mother's legs.

~*~

A crime is the theft of mine life, mine only reason.
The pain I deem equals the punishment--death!'
Life squeezed from the boy by the enraged grip
Of hands and arms, shaking from the perilous tension of the moment.
The Monster danced circles around the conflict;
Both, enveloped in a newly born cave of darkness.
Death fell through the weak arms of the man,
And Earth felt the thump of the limp boy crash.
His spoil lay, peaking out from the clutch,
In the tumbled evil, there to be reclaimed by the new.
And finally, an answer had he found.

~*~

The woman was exhausted. For several minutes she sat, still connected to her infant by the umbilical cord --- the afterbirth had yet to come. Finally, she summoned the strength to examine her child, which had somehow managed to roll onto its side. She parted the legs.

A baby girl. The woman smiled.

~*~

Victory came in the form of darkness, and it was his--
The Shadow cast his lot,
And like a fisherman he snared;
Riches, the bait; avarice, the catalyst; and Man its prey.
One undaunted goal, thorough in ideal,
To contaminate Life's ocean from a single fish,
Each and all, unto the crystal shores of heaven.
Foundation of foundations tarnished by the void,
Ever expanding unto its limits,
Never diving deep, nor soaring high,
But walking, or on horseback or floating on the sea;
Man carries Hate, the Shadow; he propagates.

~*~

The woman managed to remove her drab gray robes--- now saturated with blood and viscous fluids --- and wrap the infant girl so she might stay warm. The baby finally calmed and gazed about, her dark newborn eyes quietly contemplative in the dim light.

She efficiently birthed the placenta in the corner of the dank cell when it came time, and laid a towel over it when it had been completely expelled. She was exhausted; however, her most important task remained undone.

Now naked, she crossed her cell and lay on the floor--- dizzy and nauseous --- and began fumbling under the iron frame of her bed. Extracting a worn and folded piece of parchment from a slit in the blue ticking cover of her thin mattress, the woman crawled back to her daughter and unfolded the note. She read the words once more, although they had long been committed to memory, and her lips moved slightly as she skimmed the paper. Kneeling in front of the infant, she placed the parchment on the floor to her left. She had been impeccably precise in preserving as much of her power as she could, for she had no access to a wand in Azkaban. The woman was well versed in the Dark Arts, however, and knew she needn't employ a wand for the kind of magic a culling spell entailed. This particular culling spell could only be summoned within minutes of birth or prior to death. Hands shaking, she touched the baby --- its chubby newborn folds of flesh still slick and white with vernix --- and ran her hands all over the infant girl's body.

For several minutes the woman maintained her trance-like state; she sat back against her heels, her arms resting palms-up on her blood and dirt-streaked thighs, her lips moving in silent incantation. The darkness channeled quite suddenly, almost cowing her with its ferocious presence. It had been over a year since she had felt the surge of Dark Magic at her own bidding; however, she fell quite naturally into the familiar feeling. Placing her hands on either side of the infant's head, she began the Culling Spell, her voice cracking from months of disuse.

"The blood of two servants, freely given to one Master
The reciprocal bond of servitude creates.
This child bound to a Master, in turn
Ensures the Servants' seats at His right handed side.
For where love is naught, and good does not dwell
The essence shall chain the child to the Master,
And holds safe the servants' place evermore.
But for the spellcaster, only one can break
Manacles forged of the oldest and most ancient of magicks,
Binds this child, these servants, this Master
For all time."

She was vaguely aware of the rattling of her cell door as the dementors began their intervention and knew she would have only one chance to complete the culling ritual. The magic sensors had no doubt been triggered the moment she first channeled the energy, and had likely begun sounding the alarm throughout Azkaban at her first utterance. The woman was a high-security inmate, and had elaborate locking spells and mechanisms placed on her cell door; however, she knew the dementors could be insidiously quick when compelled.

"Ego tribuo parvulus!"

She channeled the magic even more tightly, more efficiently, ignoring the clanging at her cell door.

"Ut subsequens meus muneris..."

The magic surged forth; years of festering, vitriolic anger bubbled inside her, further fueling her power and the infant began to cry as the current of darkness passed from her mother's hands into the baby's fresh and unsullied body

"Ut atrum senior, quod vicissum atrum senior..."

The baby girl squalled angrily, her tongue quivering in her open mouth. The three locks on the woman's cell door were undone; undoubtedly the dementors were countering the locking spells now.

"Dedi suus muneris, mihi quod mei!"

Her cell door opened and the insidious cold, which always warned of approaching dementors, ran itself up her back like a single fingernail and surrounded her in its shroud. It almost broke her concentration; however, she managed to keep focused.

"Redimio alica!" A golden glow enveloped her hands and the baby as the dementors swooped down upon her, followed by the Warden of Azkaban and the chief wizard keeper of her cellblock. She felt the nitrogenous sting of the dementors' touch upon her naked shoulders and biceps as they lifted her from the floor of her cell. Still clutching her infant daughter, the woman desperately completed her task. "Redimio alica! Finite Incantatum!"

"Christ Almighty." The Warden stopped short and surveyed the woman's cell, agog at the blood and splatter throughout. He wheeled on the jailer. "What the bloody hell is this, Clum?"

Clum, the underling, was equally shocked. "Sir, I...I---"

Two dementors clutched the woman at either side of her body; she still held the baby to her chest. The infant squalled mightily.

The Warden of Azkaban wheeled on the guard, a deadly calm coming over him. "Do you mean to tell me--- do you honestly mean to tell me --- that this woman was pregnant, and you didn't notice?!

Clum's mouth worked soundlessly. The woman motioned to place the baby on the thin cot next to her. The Warden acquiesced with a discreet flick of his hand, and the baby was laid on the mattress, still screaming.

"Take her to the hospital ward," the Warden ordered the dementors. Silently, they glided from the room, the woman easily held between them, allowing herself to be carried. "And you," he said to Clum, who was cowering before him, "I will see in my office immediately. Letting a pregnant woman go unnoticed? Clum, I cannot overlook this."

The Warden turned to leave the cell. "Make arrangements for the cell to be cleaned, first. I'll expect you in my office shortly." Clum exited the room without responding, the Warden behind him.

A lone dementor remained. Silently it glided across the small cell and after a moment reached down. The infant shrieked as the dementor's grisly, cold hands touched its lovely pink skin. The creature lifted the newborn from the cot, and brought it within inches of its shrouded and cloaked face. The infant wailed helplessly and a rattling noise came forth as it held the child, almost as if it were learning the child's scent. Then, its curiosity apparently satisfied, it turned and glided from the room, the baby in hand.

~*~

"Lestrange," the Warden asked, later, while checking on his prisoner in the hospital wing, "what do you wish to call the child?" Bellatrix was enjoying a warm, hearty meal, atypical of the usual prison fare.

"It doesn't really matter," she said blankly, sipping her coffee, and adding spoonful after spoonful of gleaming white sugar. She stared vacantly past the Warden.

"Surely there is some name you prefer."

"Call her Astrid, then."

The Warden wrote it down in his pocket notebook with a tiny Quick Quote Quill. "Well, I can't say this is going to reflect well on your record; you've quite seriously decreased your chances of parole."

She laughed. "When I'm 'paroled,' as you put it, you will not be the one to turn the key."

The warden's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Bellatrix, I'm warning you now. If you're involved in some hare-brained conspiracy---"

Bellatrix Lestrange fixed a flat gaze on her jailor, a sly smile playing at her lips. "Oh, I assure you, Warden, there's no plot. It's a certainty that has no need for planning."

"Well, personally I think you've gotten your just rewards," the Warden said unctuously. She said nothing. The Warden considered her, an uneasy feeling gnawing at him. "Rodolphus is the child's father?"

"Of course he is," she snorted lightly, offended. "She's of the finest blood."

"Where shall the child go?"

"I really don't care."

Astrid awoke abruptly with a gasp, and sat up in bed. Her hair was cold and damp at the nape of her neck, and her shoulders were icy, almost as if two greying, rotten hands had recently been there. The shame of being the only child of her generation to have been born inside Azkaban was something she had not yet been able to overcome. She wasn't in any way a Seer, and she didn't know what to make of the dream. She'd had it, off and on, for years. It was always the same, and she always awoke with the cold, crawling sensation of trailing, mouldering fingers on her skin.

And then the smell wafted stealthily into her nostrils. The sickly sweet, rotting smell of death --- of something long buried and forgotten. She though surely it was the smell of her own soul, long abandoned and willingly bound by her own mother by the oldest of magicks to the Dark Lord, Voldemort.

She fumbled for her wand at her night table, her fingers trembling; in her panic she brushed it from its perch and it clattered onto the stone floor of her dormitory. She scrambled out of bed to retrieve the wand, and knelt on the area rug next to her bed, curling herself over and hugging her own arms, the ends of her straight, dark hair brushing against the green and silver carpet.

"Fi--Finite," she stammered quietly, so as not to wake her roommates, "Finite...Finite..." She suppressed the urge to weep --- she knew it would only make the smell come on stronger. It had been almost a year since this dream had last haunted her and she had tentatively dared to hope that maybe...that perhaps somehow the culling spell, which was woven tightly through the tapestry of her being, might just be gone. Just gone. Somehow.

A culling spell was bad enough on its own; however, Astrid knew she suffered from its effects than was intended. She had read everything she could get her hands on regarding culling magic. She knew there were a variety of different culling spells with different properties --- some were more binding than others. Witches and wizards of yore often used culling spells for things as mundane as betrothals, or, conversely, to conjure death. The essential part of a birth-based culling spell was the protection factor --- only a mother could cast a culling spell at birth, and it was expected she would thusly automatically provide her child with a mother's protective gifts of love, intuition, instinct, anreverencece. Astrid had received no protective gifts, for her mother had them not to give --- Astrid's mother was without conscience. It was part of the spell her mother had been unable to adequately cast because of her innate deficiencies. A mother void of love, healthy instincts, fear, and morality had nothing to offer a child in the way of protective measures. Instead, Astrid's mother had transferred her own emptiness into her daughter when she had cast the spell, and had filled Astrid with her own essence of hate, of anger --- of utter darkness.

Astrid harbored an essence of a mother no child should have to endure. When faced with fear, or pain, or sadness, there was no reassuring touch, no mumbled terms of endearment. Instead, when she experienced any strong or volatile emotion, she emitted the sickly sweet smell of decay, a scent which fully embodied fear, pain, and sadness --- Astrid had a little piece of death inside of her soul. And, unlike before, the smell was no longer triggered solely by negative emotions. As she had approached adolescence, it had morphed into responding to feelings of love and desire, as well.

Just this past summer, a neighbour boy, two years older --- whom Astrid had always liked and admired --- had caught her in the meadow behind their homes, and had kissed her longingly. Her first kiss had been very nice, and she had been surprised by the pleasant feelings it produced. But when he had kissed her again, she had frozen against him, for she caught a whiff of the smell. Her smell.

"What's that smell?" he had asked, breaking away and looking at her with adoring eyes.

"I---I don't know. Maybe there's a dead squirrel..." Astrid had broken away from his arms, and backed away.

"Astrid," he had said, moving toward her, concerned, "What's the matter? If it's because I'm a Hufflepuff and you're a Slytherin---"

She cut him off, eyes darting frantically. "It's not that. Please...it's not that, I promise..."

"What is it, then? You don't like me? Because, Astrid, I really like you..."

She had wheeled and fled. She had torn through the tall grass of the meadow, back to her grandparents' home, and she had slammed through the screened door off the kitchen with a howl. Her Grandmother had taken one look at Astrid and had dropped the bread dough she had been kneading (foGrandmèrere liked to bake bread the Muggle way) and had rushed to her side.

Years of tempering her emotions dissolved, and Astrid wept and wept, with her grandmother at her side holding a handkerchief to her nose as the smell of death and decay filled the room, and subsequently the entire house. Miss Beanie the Kneazle and Grandpère's chocolate standard Poodle, Walter, had both fled the house for the fresh air outside, but Grandmère had stayed right there--- and had actually wept with her, finally; their collective grief peeled back slowly, delicately torn apart like the layers of an onion.

"Why?" Astrid had wept. "Why did I ever have to be born? I'm a scourge..."

"No!" Her grandmother had spoken fiercely. "No. It is not you dear child who is a scourge; it is them--- and so help me God, I'm sometimes sorry I could not kill them both myself. Yes, that's right. God help me, my own son. But you are here, Astrid. And Gran pere and I are so grateful for that --- every day, you bring us joy, dear child. More joy than either Rodolphus or Bella could begin to fathom."

Grandmère had gone to the kitchen then, and had returned with her bottle of eucalyptus essential oil. She dabbed a bit under Astrid's nostrils and then her own --- it masked the smell of decay somewhat.

"We'll find a way, Astrid," Grandmère said briskly, mustering her courage. "We'll find a way. Grandpère and I will never stop looking. If I have to give up my own life, dear, sweet child, I will break this spell."

Astrid had smiled wanly, but she had not believed her. It had taken several days to completely banish the smell, despite her Grandmother's impeccable housecleaning and freshening spells, and it was then that Astrid came to accept that she would always be alone. Always.

She had avoided the boy --- whom she had always known --- for the rest of the summer, and had studiously ignored him at Hogwarts. Occasionally she found him looking at her, wistfully. After her summer breakdown, she was determined that she would keep herself in check, and had begun the grueling and unnatural process of shutting herself down emotionally.

Astrid threw herself into her studies --- she didn't know what else to do. Socialising on a cursory level had not caused a scene thus far; however, she was wary.

But how to stop the dreams?

Sitting now, the dull light of the morning breaking around her, Astrid decided to take at least one matter into her own hands. She slipped from her bed and donned her dressing gown and houseshoes, and quickly cast two of Grandmère's best freshening charms. At least that worked, she thought, as the air cleared. She padded from her room, down the stairs and out of the Slytherin dungeons.

When the knock at the door came, Snape glanced quickly at the map.

Astrid Lestrange, the map revealed, and, as an afterthought, offered Severus a bit of additional advice:

Mr. Wormtail respectfully suggests that Snape--- the greasy wanker --- stop handling himself so often, lest he grow pelts of Moony hair on his palms...

"At least I have real palms, you sniveling piece of shite," Snape retorted to Mr. Wormtail, turning the map over. "Yes?" he barked, in response to the knock.

The door creaked and the girl peeked around the door, her large, brown eyes owlish. "May I come in?" she asked tentatively.

Snape stood and motioned to the two chairs facing his desk. "Of course, please do. It's quite early Miss Lestrange --- are you well?" The girl perched nervously at the edge of the simple wooden chair and folded her hands into her lap. Snape tried again after a silent moment had passed, "Are you well? Is something wrong?"

"I--well, I had an idea...for a project. Maybe for extra credit?" she began, picking at her cuticles as she spoke. Snape nodded silently. "I know it's a seventh year lesson, but I--I had an idea for the Dreamless Sleep potion --- an interesting application, that is --- and I wondered if it would be too advanced a technique for me to learn?"

Snape considered her, and an uncomfortable emotion he didn't particularly want to visit with at present wiggled inside him for just a moment. She certainly wasn't the first student to try and ensure their own private stock of Dreamless Sleep --- nor would she be the last. He sighed.

"I'm afraid not, Miss Lestrange," he answered, his fingers steepled as he contemplated her. Her shoulders hunched forward.

"I understand --- I'm sorry. It was inappropriate for me to ask--" she was quickly rising, wanting to escape.

"Sit," Snape commanded. She did. "Tell me why you need Dreamless Sleep Potion. Perhaps there is an alternate way we can address--"

"No!" she blurted, "There isn't." Snape resisted acknowledging the anguish pooling in the girl's eyes, for it did nothing but recall unpleasant memories for him; scenes long past flashed through his mind --- scenes which found him standing alongside this girl's parents. Better me than her, he thought, forcing himself to maintain his role of Head of House.

"Miss Lestrange --- Astrid. . .it is five-thirty in the morning," Snape noted, pulling open a desk drawer and extracting a small, glass phial. "Please return to your dormitory. Here is a single dose of Dreamless Sleep. Rest. And I'll be excusing you from Monday's classes as well--"

"Sir, I really didn't mean to miss--"

"You will miss them. Allow me to complete my classes and tasks for the day, and then we shall speak further. I expect you back in my office promptly at eight o'clock tonight, and to take Monday off." Astrid took the phial from Snape's outstretched fingers, grateful.

"Don't take it until you are in your bed."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir."

Snape thought for a moment after she left, and then went to the Floo.

"Albus? Are you awake?"

Dumbledore's head appeared. "Yes, I've just gotten up. What is it, Severus?"

"I just had a student call. Astrid Lestrange--"

"Ah," Dumbledore interrupted, his brow furrowing, "yes, I see. Yes. Please come to my office straight away."