Muggle Studies

Chapter Seven

I really do appreciate the fact you're sittin' here
Your voice sounds so wonderful
But your face don't look too clear
So, Barmaid, bring a pitcher, another round of brew
Honey, why don't we get drunk and screw.
Why don't we get drunk and screw
I just bought a waterbed filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen, Honey, I don't think that's true
So, why don't we get drunk and screw.

Why Don't We Get Drunk: Jimmy Buffett

Draco awoke with a violent start; he threw his body over the side of his bed and heaved. Apparently he had thoroughly emptied his stomach the night before, for he only managed to bring up several strings of snotty yellow bile, which stuck to his rumpled clothing as he half-fell, half-leapt from his bed, grabbing for the rubbish bin from next to his desk. He buried his face in its tinny interior and retched uncontrollably.

"Hey, Malfoy?" Goyle had stirred and was stretching now, sitting up on the side of his bed. The large blanket-covered lump that was Crabbe began moving about, and Draco vaguely registered the sound of his lazy yawn; he slid down the side of his bed and collapsed to the floor, his face still inside the metal bin.

"..lllmmmii..."

"Malfoy? Are you all right?" Goyle crossed the short distance between the beds and stood over his roommate, perplexed.

Draco lifted his head from the bin. "Kill me . . . just kill me now . . ." His naturally pale skin had a greenish-grey cast, and although he couldn't see it, pin-pointed, red petechiae were slowly blooming across the delicate, shadow-tinged skin of his eyelids, as well as over the hollows under his eyes. Every one of his teeth felt as if they had been fitted with a tiny sock.

Goyle shuffled from one foot to the other, awkward. "Er, do you want me to walk you down to Madam Pomfrey or something?"

"I don't know if I can make it that far . . ." Draco whinged, burying his head back in the bin, retching again.

"You want me to get Snape, then?"

Inside the bin Draco shook his head; he wished not to add humiliation to the already wretched situation. "No. . .no. Madam Pomfrey--" He heaved again. Somehow he would have to muster the strength to walk to the hospital wing. Finally his retching subsided enough for him to catch his breath. Breathing heavily, his forehead damp with icy sweat, he attempted to regain control over his body.

He was still wearing his school uniform from the night before; it was wrinkled and his shirttails hung untucked around his upper thighs. There was a large hole torn into the sleeve of his charcoal jumper, and where the bloody hell was his tie? He was wearing one shoe. Flashes of activity from the previous evening began pinging at his aching brain.

The Quidditch match . . . Ravenclaw won. Clive and his Muggle drink . . . Draco's throat lurched at the thought. Kissing Pansy in his bed . . . Oh, yes . . . Pansy topless . . . Pansy at the lake . . . the bathro--

The bathroom.

He froze.

Waldvogel.

An icy wave combined from terror and revulsion washed through his body, and for a moment he was genuinely afraid he might lose control of his remaining bodily functions. For several minutes he sat, his fingers clutching the cool tin of the rubbish bin so tightly his fingertips were white, as the realisation slowly dawned on him that his trousers were still undone. As memories of Waldvogel's interrogation and strong hands came into focus, Draco heaved so violently into the depths of the rubbish tin the tips of his hair skimmed the dollops of bile congealing at the bottom of the can.

Pansy awoke in the unfamiliar surroundings of the hospital wing feeling as if her head had been cleaved in half by whomever it was who had managed to clock Nearly Headless Nick those many years prior. Groaning, she rolled onto her side, the waterproof infirmary mattress crackling under her weight as she moved. She sat up and groped for the glass of water Madam Pomfrey had left at the bedside table, downing it in two large, thirsty gulps. She slouched on the side of the bed for a minute --- knees together, feet turned in toward one another, hands in her lap --- attempting to locate the loo through her muddled vision. Finally she stood and lurched rather ungracefully toward the back of the infirmary, blinking several times at the signs on the matching lavatory doors to ensure she was entering the correct facility.

Once inside, she went first to the sink and ran the cold water; she splashed her face, which felt very puffy and tight indeed. Shakily grasping the edges of the sink, Pansy let her chin drop to her chest for just a moment, water dripping from her face. She patted herself dry with a towel, and then slowly made her way over to the toilet; reflexively she flipped up her skirt.

Where the bloody fuck are my knickers?

Shocked, she struggled to remember the previous evening. Face flushing, she remembered the activity on Draco's bed . . . Blaise and Rowan . . . the lake . . . fumbling with Draco's trousers . . . reaching her hand into Draco's trousers . . . cringe worthy jolt of embarrassment shot through her at this. Draco taking off her knickers . . .

Pansy froze.

Draco took them off me. She wanted to die of mortification. And I helped him do it.

Memories of last night's activities flooded back unchecked; horrified, Pansy let out a blood-curdling shriek, which would have fully rivalled Professor Lupin's Boggart Banshee third year, and brought a thoroughly-alarmed Madam Pomfrey rushing through the hospital wing to her assistance.

The nurse had just managed to situate Pansy back into bed, and had rather kindly tucked her blankets around her, when Crabbe and Goyle pushed noisily through the double doors, entering the hospital wing with a disheveled, weaving, and greenish Draco Malfoy in tow. Pansy felt far too ill to have the common decency to be embarrassed at the sight of him; she watched her housemates silently through slitted eyes, miserable and nauseous.

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips, disgusted. "I didn't doubt I'd be seeing you this morning, Mr. Malfoy. A disgrace, I say --- an absolute disgrace!"

Draco dry-heaved and the nurse stepped back, irritated; with Crabbe and Goyle holding him by his upper arms, she directed the two larger Slytherins to deposit their charge into the bed next to Pansy.

"Madam Pomfrey," Crabbe quipped, a sly grin crossing his face, "make sure you speak very, very loudly to him --- otherwise, he may not hear you tell him all about the dangers of drinking, and how it's unhealthy and all that."

She was nonplussed. "Speaking of dangerous drinking, I daresay you're smelling a bit stale yourself, Mr. Crabbe." Crabbe's lip lifted slyly as he stole a glance at Goyle. Draco groaned and once again the nurse turned her attention to him.

"Tuck in, Mr. Malfoy. It's going to be a long and painful day," Madam Pomfrey noted, shooing Crabbe and Goyle from the infirmary, and then directing a stainless steel sick bowl to Draco's bedside with her wand. He grabbed it and shoved his face into its shiny interior. Pansy knew he was utterly miserable, and if she herself didn't feel like death warmed over, she would have undoubtedly found the situation rather amusing.

"Madam Pomfrey--" Draco waited for the latest spasm to pass before continuing. "Please. Anything. Give me anything. I'm dying."

“I’m so terribly sorry Mr. Malfoy for your condition, but has always been my firm policy not to interfere with the joys of Muggle alcohol.” The nurse was brutally smug.

"Please...."

"Oh no. You'll suffer through it, yes you will, and you'll take it like the man you thought you were when you decided imbibing with Muggle liquor was a good plan," she barked. "I'll give you a seltzer tablet for your stomach to start, and then I'll prepare the other recommended Muggle treatments. Among other things," the nurse cleared her throat at this, "the Muggles suggest aspirin and plenty of hydration for their particular brand of hangover."

"Aspirin?" Draco stared at her quizzically through bloodshot, hooded eyes.

"It's a Muggle medicinal property. It's medication, Mr. Malfoy."

"Gods…please…Avada Kedavra…anything…”

“Nonsense!" Madam Pomfrey looked sternly between them, thoroughly disgusted. "You two wanted to play in the big leagues, and you’re reaping your just desserts.”

"I'm not taking any Muggle medicine."

"You'll take exactly what I prescribe, Mr. Malfoy. While I may well think you're both fully deserving of savouring every ache and pain you've wrought upon yourselves, far be it from me to bear witness to an apparent alcohol poisoning without intervening --- however, that doesn't mean I'm obligated to give either of you a smooth ride."

Pansy's eyelids were becoming progressively heavier; she managed to wave her hand. "I--I'll try the . . . whatever," she said weakly. What did she have to lose? She couldn't possibly feel worse. She alternately watched Draco's heaving back and drifted in and out of a restless sleep until Madam Pomfrey returned, directing two floating trays toward them.

"Here you are!" she said with a flourish; she kept the trays hovering in the air and plucked two tall glasses of clear liquid, handing one each to Draco and Pansy. As they held their respective glasses in shaking hands, Madam Pomfrey dropped a sachet into each one; the tablets quickly effervesced. The nurse swirled each drink with a glass stick. "Drink it down. All of it."

It was the foulest tasting liquid Pansy had ever experienced; choking, she managed to gulp down the first mouthful, a small dribble trickling from the corner of her mouth. Grimacing, she looked at Madam Pomfrey. "What is this bilge?"

"Diarlyte," the nurse answered; without missing a beat, she handed a clean sick bowl over to Draco, who was woefully unable to retain the bitter liquid he had just swallowed. "It's what the Muggles call 'oral rehydration therapy.' So let's see it then --- finish it off." She looked at Draco. "You too. Try again." He groaned.

Finally, the nurse gently settled the two floating trays to the bed tables. "And this should finish the trick," she said, briskly plucking the empty glasses from their hands.

Pansy stared. "You're joking." Her stomach wrenched as she considered the fare before her: Crisp slices of bacon and plump sausages lay next to a pile of fluffy eggs; baked beans, mushrooms, and fried tomatoes filled the rest of the plate; two slices of fried bread perched atop the mass of food.

"I most certainly am not," Madam Pomfrey clipped. "A hearty, traditional English fry-up, plus the Diarlyte and two aspirin a piece will have you each back on your feet in no time." She reached down and plucked a narrow, glass bottle from the tray; cocking her head, she gave Pansy a mendacious smile. "Ketchup?"

Her stomach fully turned. "Er . . . no."

"Are you quite sure then?" The Matron regarded her knowingly. "I understand you're quite the connoisseur when it comes to special condiments."

Pansy dry-heaved, clapping her hand over her mouth. "No . . . No . . . condiments, thank you ever so much," she managed through her fingers, after a moment.

Draco's face was again fully obscured inside the sick bowl. Madam Pomfrey turned to consider him. "Ketchup, Mr. Malfoy?"

Agnes and Armand Lestrange arrived promptly at nine o'clock for their scheduled meeting with Snape.

Severus showed them into his office, gesturing politely to the comfortable wingbacks situated in front of his desk, which he had conjured on their behalf.

Agnes Lestrange perched carefully on the edge of the seat of her chair; she glanced about, her quick, dark eyes glittering nervously. Armand Lestrange folded himself casually into his wingback; Severus immediately sensed the other man's wariness. He rounded his desk and sat, his hard, oak office chair creaking. Steepling his fingers, he rested his elbows on his desktop, and considered them.

"I do thank you for meeting with me on short notice." Snape cut straight to the point. "Astrid came to me yesterday morning, asking for access to a private stock of Dreamless Sleep potion. Naturally, I was concerned. It would be helpful to me, as her head of house, if you might explain why she would make such a request."

Armand Lestrange shifted slightly, considering Severus with an unreadable expression; slowly, he began rubbing circles on the leather arm of the chair with the index and middle fingers of his right hand. Finally, he spoke. "You know, it's been many years since we've seen one another, Snape," Armand said carefully, fixing his eyes on Slytherin's head of house, speaking again after a moment, "But, it seems like just yesterday you were in our kitchen, enjoying biscuits and tea, enjoying the company of our sons . . . ."

Severus caught Lestrange's insinuation; he fought to suppress his welling indignation. "Your home was always inviting, indeed," he responded carefully.

"Perhaps." Armand's eyes bore into Snape's. "Yes, perhaps it was. Our home was certainly quite popular with the lot of you back then, wouldn't you agree?" A cold sensation licked at his innards as Severus darted his glance from the older man to his wife; her eyes were fully suspicious, and she nodded slightly at her husband's reference as she twisted the elegant, double-stranded pearls she wore, nervously around her hand.

Despite himself, Severus recalled the Lestrange brothers in vivid detail --- Rodolphus, tall and arrogant, his lethality firmly entrenched by nineteen, the younger Rabastan more akin to Wormtail in his sycophantism. And there had also been Bella . . .

He squelched the memory of her immediately, briefly pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes. Sighing, he considered the elder Lestranges once again.

"Many years have passed since those days, Armand --- not that I do not remember your home with fondness, of course," he said.

"Time is so very often irrelevant in such matters, Snape."

"Or, conversely, it can be very relevant. Enlightening, even." The two men stared at one another; Severus was suddenly hyper-aware of the mundane noises of his office: the soft bubbling of the personal cauldron stationed behind his desk; the students moving through the corridors, all clusters and pockets of chatter and rustling robes; the song of the frogs he kept in a tank. He cleared his throat. "Astrid, then," he began, leaning back in his chair, "has come to me requesting a private supply of Dreamless Sleep potion, which is of course concerning." Neither of the Lestranges reacted visibly. "As Astrid's head of house, is there something I need to be aware of?"

Armand Lestrange continued plucking at the leather arm of his chair; Agnes, motionless, watched Snape carefully, wary and closed.

Severus tried again. "As Slytherin's Head of House, it would behoove me to know if she requires special accommodations . . . for any reason."

Slowly, Armand nodded; however, he remained silent.

It was Agnes who finally broke the silence. "You allegiance is to Dumbledore, then?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

Severus was taken aback at the unexpected question. "The headmaster is a man most worthy of allegiance, yes," he said, nodding.

"Dual alliances do not often resolve themselves successfully, wouldn't you agree?" she asked, far too breezily to be construed as casual.

"Your point is indeed well taken."

"What is your opinion on dual alliances, Snape?" Armand's eyes bore into the other man, and Severus immediately understood the Lestranges distrusted him implicitly. He fought to retain his temper.

"Right now my alliance is to your granddaughter," he forced, through clenched teeth. "Can we not align together on her behalf?"

The elder Lestranges considered him in silence.

He sighed again, resignedly. Pushed himself back and standing, he motioned to the door with his arm as he came back around from behind his desk. "All right. Follow me, if you please."

~*~

Albus Dumbledore greeted the elder Lestranges warmly as Severus showed them in; he directed them to two comfortable wingbacks he had conjured before his desk.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please have a seat. Severus, may I have a word?"

Snape and Dumbledore headed upstairs to the second level of the headmaster's grand office. At the top of the staircase they paused, and Dumbledore spoke quietly.

"I have a fully scheduled day, more so than usual. Please explain to me why my personal intervention is required in a simple parental conference?" The headmaster was clearly short-tempered.

"As I'm sure you are aware, it is not a simple conference." Snape defended himself. "They are not being forthcoming," he explained.

"You have asked them outright?"

"Obviously." Snape rolled his eyes slightly.

"As one of my heads of house, I trust you to manage these issues on your own. As I've indicated, my schedule is quite congested--"

Snape's lip curled. "Perhaps your pampering of the Potter boy could be laid aside just one time, so that you might attend to the needs of another student?"

Dumbledore sighed. "An unfair accusation, Severus."

"You mean to tell me your schedule was filled by the needs of another?"

The headmaster took great pause, before meeting Snape's gaze. He appeared tired and gaunt. "Yes, my matters do concern Harry today." He sighed again. "I apologise if I am anything less than available. What is the exact problem?"

Snape leaned in. "They don't trust me. They question my alliances."

Dumbledore considered this. "You are aware, of course, of the culling spell which was placed on Astrid Lestrange at the time of her birth? Undoubtedly the Lestranges' concerns arise--"

Snape was stunned. "What? No. What are you talking about?"

"Is there no mention of the culling spell in her student file?" Dumbledore's brow furrowed; he was genuinely puzzled. "If a student is under a spell of any kind, it is always noted in their student file for reference. Severus, I wish for you to collect Astrid Lestrange's student file immediately and bring it here." The old wizard rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "I am certain I now understand the cause of the Lestranges' discomfort with you. I do apologise again for my shortness with you this morning. Dare I say it's been a rather stressful term thus far?"

Snape nodded, slightly vindicated. "I shall collect it right now."

Together they descended the staircase; Snape headed to the dungeons and Dumbledore crossed his office to the massive stone fireplace. Bestowing an appeasing smile on the Lestranges', he held up a finger to indicate a necessary moment, and reached for his vessel of Floo powder. He threw a pinch into the flames.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ministry of Magic, Auror Division."

Shacklebolt's head appeared after almost a minute had passed. "Albus," the Auror greeted, in his deep, rumbling voice. "How are you? Sorry about the wait there --- Tonks was using my Floo, so I had to transfer you to the office fireplace."

"Not a trouble at all, Kingsley," Dumbledore said. "I've a rather complex issue at hand, regarding a student--"

"Is Harry all right?" Shacklebolt interjected, immediately concerned.

"Harry is fine. Today's call concerns another student --- Astrid Lestrange."

Shackelbolt rubbed the top of his head with his fingertips; he appeared momentarily lost in thought, as if he were conducting a mental inventory. Slowly he began nodding. "Yes. Okay, yes I remember. The girl was born in Azkaban . . ."

"Yes."

Shacklebolt nodded. "Go on."

"I do believe I might need your assistance in a matter concerning her. Might you be available to come to my office? I do apologise for the short notice."

"Yes, I'll be right there. Let me close out the Pettigrew file for today, and then I'll Floo right over."

"Thank you Kingsley." Shacklebolt's head disappeared from Dumbledore's grate; the headmaster turned to the Lestranges.

Agnes Lestrange leaned forward, her back straight and prim, resting her forearms across the knee of her crossed leg. "I daresay I hope everything is well with Astrid," she said, her voice tight and controlled.

Dumbledore considered the woman carefully. "I imagine you know this is not the case. Actually, I was hoping you and Armand might be able to help Severus and I answer the question more completely. Agnes, is there something about Astrid that we need to know? Aside from the culling spell?"

Neither reacted visibly. After a moment, Agnes clipped in her cool, aristocratic voice, "I'm sure I don't know to what you refer."

Dumbledore sighed. "Astrid came to Severus this morning seeking permission to brew her own supply of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Apparently, she was . . . well, not quite herself."

Agnes's hand fluttered compulsively to her throat in a practised gesture, and she fingered her elegant string of pearls nervously. "Well, I expect--I expect it could be due to a number of things really --- stress perhaps. I know Astrid has been--"

Armand drew himself up. "The matter is a complex one," he said simply. Dumbledore's eyebrows piqued and he leaned forward.

Agnes flinched, turning to her husband. "You should not--"

Armand turned to his wife. "No. It won't be a secret much longer anyway. The spell's effects are strengthening --- she's losing control; we both know this to be true. This summer's incident was very serious."

"Agnes," Dumbledore asked gently, "what do Severus and I need to know about Astrid? Please trust I will, of course, keep whatever information you share private; I'm happy to do whatever I can, and use whatever power I have, to help Astrid, if it is something--" Agnes Lestrange rose from her chair, her eyes flashing angrily.

"We're to believe this, are we? You are housing a known Death Eater at Hogwarts." she stated coldly, her dark eyes accusing.

"Ah. I see." Remaining calm, Dumbledore considered her. "You refer to Severus, of course."

"I do indeed."

"There is a relevance, then, to the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort, which is causing you concern?"

"A wise supposition."

Snape re-entered Dumbledore's office, a black leather folder under his arm; Astrid's name was tooled across the top right-handed corner in elegant shades of emerald and silver. He sensed the tension immediately and took pause. The headmaster met his eyes and beckoned him over. "Severus, if you would please join me." Dumbledore conjured a chair identical to his own to his left. Snape hesitated. "Yes, Severus. Please do." Nodding, Snape continued to the chair and took his seat. The Lestranges watched carefully as Dumbledore rounded his desk and came to take his own seat. He addressed them, "You'll note where I have Severus sitting?" The Lestranges stared silently. "Agnes, Armand --- how long have I known you both?"

Armand shifted. "Indeed for very many years," he said.

Dumbledore's face was determined, bold. "Yes, for many years. Thus, you well know I never seat people randomly."

A victorious shiver raced up Snape's spine; almost imperceptibly he raised his chin a notch.

Agnes trailed her gaze to Snape. "You were a friend to my sons. You are a Death Eater." Her tone wasn't particularly accusatory, Snape was surprised to sense.

"Yes."

"And you were more than a friend to Bellatrix."

"Yes." Snape forbid the subject to further invade his mind.

"And you are now loyal to Dumbledore."

"Correct."

Armand considered him; Snape thought perhaps the older man's eyes were less hard. "You are solely loyal to Dumbledore?" he asked.

"Yes."

"There is word to the contrary, Snape."

"I cannot speak to such things," Snape said, choosing his words carefully. "I can only assure you my loyalties lie within this room."

Agnes's gaze was fixed upon Dumbledore. "Albus," she asked pointedly. "Where do your loyalties lie?"

Dumbledore looked at her quizzically. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning?"

"Here. At Hogwarts. Where do your loyalties lie?" Agnes pressed.

"They lie, of course, with the students under my care. They lie with my staff and colleagues."

"Toward which students in particular do your loyalties lean?"

Dumbledore remained silent for a moment, reposed in thought. "I am equally loyal to all the students at Hogwarts," he said.

"Are you now?"

Clearing his throat, Snape interjected, "I don't see what this has to do with Astrid's situation--"

Armand turned toward the professor. "This has everything to do with Astrid!" he barked at Slytherin's head of house, before returning his attention to Dumbledore. "Astrid is a Slytherin, and you of all people know what they face --- burdens above and beyond the children of the other houses must bear. Yet how do you protect them, Albus? Tell me . . . Do you leave them to their own devices, or do you cultivate them? Do you let them fester, or do you stir their hearts toward inclusiveness? Do you disregard the general condemnation they are subjected to in your own institution, or do you actively dispell such notions?" Armand stood, drawing himself to his full height. Crossing his arms over his chest he towered over the seated men. "Go on, Dumbledore. Convince me you have our granddaughter's well-being at heart. Convince me you don't consider her disposable or unworthy of proper cultivation."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers beneath his chin and considered the Lestranges, a variety of emotions purling across his weathered face. He sighed finally, rubbing his lids with his thumb and forefinger of his right hand, lifting his gaze. "You both know firsthand Slytherin House is an exception to all the houses --- it is not dealt with in the same regard as the other three. Indeed, it requires a different kind of care."

"Neglect is never benign," Agnes noted. "Especially in Slytherin."

Snape shifted in his seat and regarded the Lestranges. "The inherent difficulties which lie in Slytherin House do not go unnoticed," he stated emphatically. "However, the Gryffindor approach to student care would never work when it comes to Slytherin. It's too overt, too affronting. The students in Slytherin would never accept it."

Agnes remained sceptical. "Surely you do not believe benign neglect to be the key!"

"I cannot agree with your choice of terminology; the work being done on behalf of Slytherin House is subtle, yes, but it's constant and it's quite encompassing."

"What children would reject being openly cared for? It goes against all sense of probability," Agnes mused.

Dumbledore smiled slyly. "I can recall in vivid detail two very proud, very independent Slytherin students who would have objected vociferously to being overtly coddled," he said, gesturing discreetly between Agnes and her husband.

Snape leaned forward. "You both have the benefit of age and experience in which to consider the issue; the Slytherin students do not. They are limited in that way --- they have not the context to consider any other way of existence."

The Lestranges fell silent. Finally, Armand shifted his gaze from Snape back to Dumbledore, raising his chin a notch as he considered the headmaster. "Astrid is a good girl, Albus --- she's a beautiful soul."

Dumbledore nodded. "Armand, please tell me now what is wrong with Astrid," he asked quietly. The Lestranges remained silent. Armand shifted his gaze to Fawkes, sleeping silently on his golden perch; Agnes stared balefully at the Hogwarts headmaster. Dumbledore spoke urgently. "I will care for Astrid as best I can, as I do with all my charges, and I care for Slytherin House equally. Perhaps I have been remiss in my course of treatment of Slytherin House --- I cannot say with certainty, for it is very complicated. Now," Dumbledore's voice was quietly vehement, "please do tell me what is wrong with your granddaughter. You absolutely must."

Agnes's mouth remained tight and drawn as she spoke curtly, "You are aware of the circumstances surrounding her birth." It was a statement. Dumbledore nodded. "Bella placed the culling spell on Astrid within moments of her birth --- Astrid is magically bound to Lord Voldemort. Bella gave Astrid to Lord Voldemort to ensure her own place as the Dark Lord's right hand."

Snape remained still at the news; Dumbledore nodded, regarding the Lestranges keenly. "What kind of culling spell is it exactly?" he asked.

"We don't know." She seemed slightly revitalised in the wake of the unfurling burden, and her face began flooding with emotion. Stepping behind his wife, Armand turned and rested his hand on her shoulder protectively; automatically she reached up to cover his hand with her own. She continued, "We were told Bella had the actual spell written down on a piece of parchment; they found it after they sensed her casting the spell and raided her cell. I'm not sure what became of the actual parchment once her cell was swept for contraband after Astrid's birth. I've requested a copy of the spell numerous time, but it's been classified by the Ministry, and I've yet to be successful in finding anyone willing to investigate the matter properly."

Dumbledore's eyes were sympathetic as he considered the two. "You've been alone with this all these years," he surmised.

"We've sought help from the very best medi-witches and healers, and the foremost spell-reversal consultants. We have the means with which to pay the very best, but they can do nothing. So, aside from the professionals we've consulted, no --- no one knows. Well, now you both do," Armand said, flicking his glance between Dumbledore and Snape.

"And with the rumours of Voldemort's return --- what with the Daily Prophet's reports contradicting . . . Albus, I'm scared," Agnes burst out; embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her balled fist and trained her now unguarded, pleading eyes on Dumbledore. "I don't know what to believe! Is Voldemort back with us?"

Dumbledore felt a spike of anger peak in his gut. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that yes, he is. It's a certainty."

"But the Daily Prophet quotes the Ministry as saying--"

Dumbledore silenced her with a wave of his hand. "Did you not just finish telling me how you and Armand have been unable to have one simple question adequately answered by Ministry officials? Their unwillingness to challenge the status quo ought not to surprise you," he suggested.

Agnes nodded, ceding the point. "Will Voldemort be able to come for Astrid? Can he actually claim her?"

Nodding, Dumbledore began, "I cannot say for--"

Snape interjected, "I'd say no. Not right now anyway. He's still weak, and he has nowhere near regained his former levels of support. Most of his most steadfast followers remain in Azkaban."

"Do you ever visit Bella and Rodolphus in Azkaban?" Dumbledore asked the Lestranges, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

"God no!" Armand answered, his face hardening with disgust. "Absolutely not. Never. They're both where they belong and they deserve no mercy from us. Astrid is the only one deserving of mercy." He turned his back on the group, unable to face them as he continued, "Not a day goes by that I don't ask myself how I sired such children."

"You know," Agnes mused reflectively, "I had a very difficult pregnancy with Rodolphus. It was all the healers at St. Mungo's and I could do to maintain it." She gave a sharp, almost bleating, laugh --- dry and bleak. "So many times I've wondered if it was fate's way of trying to tell me --- if I had only known . . . I should have let the pregnancy go-- should have let nature take its course. But then, of course, I wouldn't have Astrid."

"I've known you both for many, many years," Dumbledore noted kindly. "And suffice it to say, I do not believe your sons' choices are your burden to bear."

"Wise words indeed from a man without children of his own," Agnes said, not unkindly.

Dumbledore rose and circled around his desk, and came to where the Lestranges sat, facing them. "One does not need be a parent to know a few simple truths about human choice. Voldemort first rose during a volatile time in our world's history. His appeal has always been insidious and extremely difficult to thwart. Well," he paused, thinking for a moment. "You remember how Tom Riddle was. Anyhow, you and Armand gave both your boys all the information they needed, to know the course they were to chart with Voldemort was a doomed one. You are correct in being grateful for Astrid's existence, and I thank you for trusting me with this information about her. It is very vital information, as you know." He considered the couple in front of him. "I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to help your granddaughter. Every spell, less Avada Kedavra of course, has a counter --- it's a matter of finding the right one. I have excellent resources at my disposal."

Armand nodded silently; finally, he extended his hand. "Thank you, Albus." Dumbledore took it, grasping the other man's forearm briefly with his free hand in return, before the two men released one another. The headmaster then moved across his office to the long, stone hearth and threw a second pinch of Floo Powder into the low flames, calling for Kingsley Shacklebolt once again.

"Albus," Kingsley greeted again. "I was literally just stepping into the Floo."

"It was Moody who captured Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange in 1980, was it not?" Dumbledore skipped any preamble.

"Yes. Moody's here, actually. Shall I call him over for a word?"

"Please."

The sound of muffled voices issued forth, followed by the sound of wood scraping on stone. Alastor Moody's grizzled face appeared in the flames.

"Dumbledore," the retired Auror growled, his face twisting into a scowl. "Kingsley here says you have questions about the Lestranges?" He nodded his head. "I tracked the three of them down, oh . . ." Moody rubbed his chin in thought, "say six or seven months after the Potters were killed. Exceptionally dangerous, the lot of them --- Bella especially. I reckon she's second only to Voldemort himself." His magical eye swivelled keenly, alighting upon the Lestranges. "Agnes. Armand." He greeted them cordially.

Armand tipped his head. "Moody. It's been quite a while."

"Alastor," Dumbledore continued, "the Lestranges are here today because of their granddaughter --- Astrid Lestrange. They--we need your help."

Moody's head disappeared from the flames and again the muffled sounds of conversation filtered into Dumbledore's office. The former Auror's head reappeared. "Kingsley and I --- we'll come straight away." There was a whooshing sound and within seconds the Floo expelled Shacklebolt and Moody onto the headmaster's hearth. The Aurors brushed the soot from their shoulders and banished the remnants; Moody clunked across Dumbledore's office, choosing the headmaster's massive leather chair behind the desk in which to get comfortable. "The girl is at Hogwarts, then?"

"Yes. Third year Slytherin."

Moody chuckled wryly. "The little tyke ultimately cost Demetrius Diggle his job as warden. Probably a good thing, though. He was far too soft for the lot there. Don't get me wrong --- good man, good man Diggle is. Just not the Azkaban type."

Agnes leaned forward. "Astrid was cursed--" she began.

"Yes, yes. I know about the culling spell. And Merlin's beard, what a mess that was," Moody grimaced, rubbing his whiskered chin. "Remember Jonas Silk, Albus? He actually had to physically pry the girl from the arms of a Dementor --- apparently that particular one didn't want to let go of its new plaything. 'Spect it had never seen a human infant before --- complex creatures, Dementors.

Agnes closed her eyes against the haunting image Moody had conjured. Sensing the woman's discomfort, Dumbledore attempted to guide Moody back on topic. "The Lestranges have received very little assistance from the Ministry in tracing the origins of the culling spell used on their granddaughter--" he explained.

"Not surprised about that," Moody interrupted sardonically, crossing his wooden leg across his good knee. "Gotta love the smell of bureaucracy in the morning."

"--and the effects of the spell are becoming more pronounced. Do you have access to Astrid Lestrange's Ministry file?"

"Of course. Well, through Kingsley, yeah. What exactly do you need?"

"First, we need the spell, to deduce the proper counter."

"Well I expect it's still there in Bella's file. I'll bring Rodolphus's as well."

Agnes buried her face in the folds of her husband's rich, black robes, sobbing quietly in relief. "Moody," Armand croaked, stunned in the unexpected and seemingly easy wake of information long sought, "I--We'd be ever so grateful. We've never been able to get the full story from anyone."

Moody worked absentmindedly at a small spot on his wooden leg, which had apparently been gouged and had splintered slightly. He peeled several tiny slivers of wood away from the leg before tapping the area with his wand. It smoothed over, glossy and unmarred once again. "Does the girl show her parents' propensity for the Dark Arts?"

"No," Snape answered. "Not particularly anyway. She's a solid student in all her subjects --- gets full marks in most of her classes. She does well in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but she's never shown any of the usual signs of cultivating a deviant interest in the Dark Arts."

"Are you close enough to your students to know, Severus?" Moody inquired, his normal eye narrowing in suspicion.

"I believe I am. There are, in fact, students whom I monitor extremely closely for such proclivities. Astrid Lestrange is not one of them."

Alastor Moody's eyebrows soared at Snape's admission and he whipped out a self-inking Quick Quotes Quill and a notebook from his robes. "Let's hear it, then. Who're you watching? I'll get files started on them."

"Specifically? Well, I'm not sure it's appropriate--"

"We're here about Astrid Lestrange today, Alastor," Dumbledore interjected firmly. Moody deflated slightly at the loss of a fine opportunity to collect pertinent information.

"Fine," he said, a touch sulky, "but make no bones about it --- I'll be following up with Severus after we adjourn the current matter." Moody stood with a clunk and ran a hand through his sparse, greying hair, and returned his quill and notebook to his pocket. He turned to Shacklebolt. "Can you fetch the file, then?"

Shacklebolt stood. "Not a problem."

Filius Flitwick sat in a customised grey and royal blue velvet wingback, conjured by Dumbledore especially for the diminutive Charms instructor, right on top of the headmaster's massive desk; intently, he studied the yellowed bit of parchment. It had been nearly half an hour, and the rest of the group was waiting silently.

Finally, Flitwick sighed heavily and looked up, his intelligent eyes dark. "It's not good news, Albus."

"I was afraid that might be the case."

The elder Lestranges' faces fell; Agnes's throat worked as if she meant to speak out, but found herself unable. Flitwick rose from his chair and paced the length of Dumbledore's desk; he cradled his chin thoughtfully in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, the tattered spell parchment held between the index and middle fingers of his other hand. Finally he knelt down and spread the creased parchment on the desktop for all to see, gently smoothing it flat across Dumbledore's blotter. He took out his wand. The group clustered around him.

"This part here," he indicated, using his wand as a pointer, "The blood of two servants, freely given to one Master, the reciprocal bond of servitude creates. Clearly the Lestranges --- Bellatrix and Rodolphus, that is --- have a blood bond with He Who Must Not Be Named. The three of them have made a pact--"

"A pact that is only as good as the word of the parties which binds it," Moody snorted cynically. "Let Bella and Rodolphus see just how binding Voldemort's word is when the Dark Lord is displeased. Sorry, Filius --- go on."

Flitwick continued. "This child bound to a Master, in turn ensures the Servants' seats at His right-handed side. Oh, the dear child," he broke off, shaking his head. "Bellatrix has bound Astrid to You Know Who to ensure You Know Who's trust in her --- to prove her loyalty. For what is more hard to deliver into the hands of evil than a child? It's the ultimate sacrifice. No sane mother would do such a thing purposely."

"Told you they were dangerous," Moody growled, incensed.

"Indeed," Flitwick agreed. "And I cannot recall a single documented incident in modern times where this particular spell was utilised. It is of very old and ancient magic, as the spell itself says. In fact, I myself know for a fact this spell is catalogued in only three sources. The Ministry has two of the ancient texts containing this spell in their custody, and believe you me, I had to jump through all kinds of hoops to see the texts when I was studying culling spells --- felt like a trained poodle."

"And what of the third source?" Dumbledore asked.

"It's unaccounted for. There were three known copies of the particular text in question. As the Ministry is in possession of two of those texts, clearly the third has made its way into the hands of dark wizards. It's the only rational explanation for this spell being chosen."

"But why this spell? There are many culling spells out there. . ." Agnes inquired, puzzled.

"This culling spell is different from most. Specifically, a known counter-spell is unavailable. As I'm sure you might know, a generic culling spell can be easily lifted by professional spell-breakers. But this culling spell. . ." Flitwick again indicated toward the small piece of parchment lying innocuously on the table and began reading, drawing his wand under the words as he spoke. "For where love is naught, and good does not dwell --- This essence shall chain the child to the Master, And hold safe the servants' place evermore." Flitwick looked up again. "Culling spells have historically been used as protective charms --- and they are a powerful breed of magic. In regard to a culling spell cast at birth, the most essential ingredient has always been the mother's love for her child; on a purely theoretical level, culling spells run parallel with the type of ancient magic which protects Harry Potter, to give a relevant example. Anyhow, Bella's culling spell was clearly reworked and cultivated as a dark one --- in her case, when the spell is cast the triggering factor is not a mother's love, but rather a complete void in the mother's heart. Bellatrix Lestrange is clearly no ordinary mother --- your typical witch would never be capable of casting such a spell on a child. Bellatrix Lestrange can have no innate measures of love or compassion, or feelings of protection toward Astrid. Thus, she was able to cast the spell. If she were in possession of normal emotions, she would have never been able --- magically speaking --- to do so. She has sealed the bond between You Know Who and Astrid with her complete lack of normal human emotion or motherly instinct."

The room was silent.

"A monster." Moody's voice was tight with anger. "Only a monster could ever do such a thing."

"Yes," Flitwick agreed.

"Then there is little hope," Armand voiced haltingly, shattered.

"Oh no, Mr. Lestrange," Flitwick shook his tiny head vehemently. "There is always hope, even in the most dire of cases. I won't deny the fact that Astrid's case is indeed very, very serious. The spell is exceptionally powerful, but," the little wizard drew himself up, "there is always a counter-spell. Always. The challenge for those of us in the charms profession is finding the appropriate counter-spell for cases just like Astrid's. There are many, many powerful and brilliant witches and wizards who research spell-reversal exclusively, on a full-time basis."

Snape picked up the parchment, his slender index finger lightly tracing the fuzzy creases where the parchment had long ago been folded as he re-read the spell. "But for the spell-caster, only one can break the manacles forged of the oldest and most ancient of Magics," he mused aloud quietly. "But for the spell-caster, only one can break the manacles forged of the oldest and most ancient of Magics, which binds this child, these servants, this master. . .for all time. But for the spell-caster, only one can break--" Snape looked up, animated. "Albus, someone is capable of breaking this spell. It's right here --- 'only one other' aside from the spell-caster. Bella cast the spell--"

"And trust me she'd be loathe to lose her front-row, orchestra seat alongside the Dark Lord, so you can forget about asking her to lift it herself," Moody pronounced grumpily, clumping around the office in obvious frustration.

"Anyhow," Snape drawled silkily, casting an irritated glance at Moody, "The spell itself tells us there is someone who can break it --- all we need to do is find out who or what kind of person that is."

"You are right, of course, Severus," Flitwick agreed. "However, I must clarify one detail: Because it is possible for the spell to be broken by a certain kind of person, this does not suggest or guarantee that such an individual is currently alive and available. It only tells us the possibility exists in theory."

"Then obviously we must discern the key traits of the counter-curse," Snape responded, a frown twisting his face, "and recreate it. Perhaps a potion might--"

Flitwick shook his head. "No. While you might be able to quell certain symptoms manifesting from a given spell by synthetic interventions--"

"Potions, Filius, is an art. It's an esoteric and organic science," Snape clipped, gravely affronted at the perceived dig. "In fact--"

Flitwick held out his hand, shaking his head. "Potions is a very different art than charms and spells. Forgive me --- I meant not to imply it is in any way a lesser field. What I'm saying is each are intrinsically too dissimilar to provide compatible counters for one another. That said, undoubtedly I will be calling upon your expertise to help tame the girl's symptoms. Yet as far as a cure is concerned, the aetiology of the cause and the cure must be one and the same." He turned to the Lestranges. "What symptoms does Astrid display?"

Agnes flicked a glance first at her husband before returning to Professor Flitwick. "She produces an . . . odour."

"An olfactory symptom, then? Interesting. How strong is the smell?"

"Well, it's quite strong," Agnes admitted.

"Any specific scent?"

The Lestranges paused for a moment. "Death," Armand said simply.

Flitwick gaped. "Death? You aren't serious."

"Yes. Death. Decay. It's terrible," Agnes said bleakly; she relayed the past summer's incident when it had taken almost a week to clear the smell from their home.

"And you say it took five days for the smell to fully clear?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes. It was her most severe attack yet."

Flitwick pondered this for several minutes; finally he stood, a determined expression on his small face. "I shall begin researching this immediately." He turned toward Moody. "Alastor, might you begin searching for the text I referred to earlier? It might come in handy." Flitwick scrawled on a piece of parchment and held it out to Moody between his fore and middle fingers.

Moody read it, then folded the parchment and put it into his pocket. "I'll get right on it. It's likely catalogued in the Dangerous Items archive; I still have clearance there." He clomped over to the Lestranges, his hand proffered. "Agnes. Armand. I'll be in touch. Albus, likewise. Filius, Severus, contact me with any questions." Moody made his way to the fireplace and disappeared with a green flash, Shacklebolt following in turn.

"May we go see Astrid?" Armand asked Snape.

"Of course. She's sleeping, though."

Armand nodded. "It's all right. We'd just like to see her. This is all so--I must say, I'm feeling a bit hopeful. I just want her to know that."

Snape rose. "Shall I walk you?"

"Thank you, but no." Agnes was gathering her things. "Even though it's been many years since my days there, I do believe I could find my way to the dungeons blindfolded. It'll give Armand and I a chance to discuss things."

"Very well." Snape inclined his head, retaking his seat, while Dumbledore showed the Lestranges out. He ruminated as he awaited the headmaster's return.

When Dumbledore was again seated behind his desk, Snape mused aloud. "Filius said the magic is somewhat similar to that which protects Potter--"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Stop. I cannot allow you to go down that road."

Snape stared at him, surprised. "What? Albus, I was merely suggesting--"

"Stop."

The high he had felt from the Lestranges taciturn acceptance of him, and the subsequent progress made on Astrid's behalf, was pushed aside; he felt most aggrieved. "I'm rather beginning to consider the Lestranges' suggestion of inter-house favouritism," he said, attempting semi-successfully to control his tone. "Why should we not discuss Potter in this matter? If the types of magic are theoretically similar--"

"That will be enough." The headmaster's face grew angry and dark.

Rage bubbled up in his chest; Snape's face tightened and he stood, stepping forward to grip the edge of the headmaster's desk. "No, actually, it is not enough," he hissed. "It's never enough. You've never given enough." Snape leaned across the desk, his voice dropping into the silky drawl he typically reserved for students. "I protected you with the Lestranges just now, but your being a Gryffindor yourself, Albus, does not justify an inherent bias!"

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly. "Severus, it is much, much more complicated than that."

"Maybe," Severus growled, his voice shaking, "it's not."

Dumbledore's hand twitched and he took several deep breaths, regaining his composure. "I shall take it under advisement," he said, his voice controlled. "However, it is complicated. Harry--"

Snape was still angry. "Tell me why Harry Potter is inherently more worthy than Astrid Lestrange? Why does Potter automatically receive the benefit of any and all magical research, while Miss Lestrange languishes, smelling like she's been keeping quarters with Potter's parents, waiting for Voldemort to blithely come looking for her at his whim? Perhaps the Gryffindor bias is more far-reaching than I ever imagined."

Dumbledore pointed his finger at Snape. "Do you not think that Harry is in rather the same position? That is quite enough, Severus. Not only are your remarks uncalled for, they are also quite disrespectful to both Astrid and Harry."

Snape took a deep breath; his heart pounded madly in his chest, and he felt as if he might explode with rage. He leaned against Dumbledore's desk, gripping the sides with both hands, letting his head hang for just a moment as he gathered his thoughts. Finally, he looked up. "I do apologise," he hissed insincerely through clenched teeth, his beetle-black eyes surly. "It is only that the thought occurred to me, perhaps Potter and his special brand of protection might be the--"

Albus Dumbledore trained his wand on Severus Snape's forehead, its tip slicing through a thick lock of black hair, which had fallen into Snape's face.

"Severus," Dumbledore commanded, dangerously calm. "Stop. It is far more complicated than you know."

Snape didn't flinch; his eyes narrowed. "Explain it to me, then."

"Now is not the appropriate time."

"Then, respectfully, I must persist on behalf of a student under my care."

"Are you quite sure you really wish to pursue this?"

"If you are quite sure you will continue in your indifference toward the students other than Potter, then yes I do wish to pursue this."

"This is your final position?"

"Yes."

"Very well. My apologies in advance." The practised flick of Dumbledore's wrist was imperceptible. "Obliviate!"

Due to recent unacceptable student insurrections in direct violation of the Ministry of Magic's sensible, well-prepared, and irrefutable position on recent political rumours involving the alleged return of one wizard who shall not be named, all Hogwarts students third year and above will be required to participate in and complete a new Ministry-sponsored program: Poor Choices, Necessary Consequences, henceforth known as the Choices program.

Students third year and above shall be required to participate in and complete a specially guided tour of Azkaban Prison, under the direction of the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge). Students third year and above shall be required to attend a supplemental Choices seminar twice monthly. Students third year and above shall be required to submit a written report of no less than five feet regarding the importance of wise and careful life choices.

Exceptions to these requirements shall not be made, regardless of the circumstances. Any student found attempting to subvert their dutiful obligations shall be dismissed from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Implementation of the Choices program shall commence no later than 1st December, 1995.

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four

Signed:

Dolores Jane Umbridge

High Inquisitor

It had been such a long time since Albus Dumbledore felt the visceral, jolting surge of pure rage rising within him, that he initially believed for a moment he had coincidentally come down with a life-threatening physical ailment. He worked to keep his face neutral as he looked up from the Educational Decree in his hand to Dolores Umbridge; the lone hint of his displeasure were the two light spots of colour, which appeared just under the rims of his half-moon glasses. First the Lestrange girl's situation, then Severus's impudence, and now this. Dumbledore struggled to retain his temper, which was now officially taxed beyond endurance.

"Thank you for keeping me updated, Dolores," he acknowledged blandly, carefully placing the Decree on his desk to his right.

"What, no protestations?" Umbridge inquired, carmelised curiosity dripping insincerely from her toad-like lips. "I must say, I am a bit surprised. It's a rather brilliant idea, if you ask me." She let out a barking, high-pitched titter, and patted the cap of curls framing her face. "Although I do realise you did not, in fact, ask my opinion."

"Should you like me to protest?"

Umbridge's eyes widened. "Oh my, no," she cooed. "Perhaps I was incorrect in assuming you would automatically object. I commend you on your common sense, Albus."

"I do find it an unwise practise to automatically cede a point based only on face value," Dumbledore replied carefully. "I've often found it behooves one to experience something firsthand, and to gather all available information, before rendering an informed opinion."

"Some would argue you promote a rather inefficient practice, don't you think?"

"Perhaps. But I do believe I said it was an informed process, Dolores, not an efficient one." The headmaster's eyes bore into Umbridge's until she shifted her gaze.

"You know, Dumbledore, Minister Fudge wishes Harry Potter to see what lies in store for him, should he continue to travel the path he has chosen. It would be a shame to lose such a. . . resourceful boy to the weaknesses of his own ego and mind." She was clearly elated at relaying this information.

"All this trouble on behalf of Harry Potter? I see. Does the Ministry wish to highlight Harry's importance in such times? Attention often renders the illusion of increased power. Surely the Ministry does not wish to exacerbate Harry's already elevated position?"

Professor Umbridge smiled sweetly. "The dangers of students continuing to make ill-informed and impulsive life choices can no longer be ignored, as they for so long have been, and this issue shall be thoroughly explored and addressed through this novel and unique program. Albeit in an unusual and, at times, graphic way, the ramifications of questionable political allegiances in a volatile political climate shall be addressed."

"Then, so shall Harry Potter be shown --- thank you for your concern." Dumbledore stood to escort Umbridge from his office. "Good day, Dolores."

When Monday morning came, Professor Lupin informed his class, “Our next unit of study will be Muggle Arts and Entertainment.”

Pansy’s head was still throbbing a bit from Saturday night’s escapades, her appetite just hinting at a return. Never again, she had thought, as she sat, queasy, for breakfast that morning. She had spent all of Sunday in the infirmary, too nauseous to move back to the dungeons. By the time she had felt semi-human again, she had barely been able to make it back to her dorm; she had tumbled right back into bed and had slept straight through until this morning. As a result, she was completely unprepared for Potions and had had to suffer through another tongue-lashing from Snape after class had let out.

Her hands were still a tad shaky; she gripped the new syllabus tightly.

Millicent leaned in. “I’ve heard of some of this music before,” she whispered, pointing to several unfamiliar names, which Pansy assumed were Muggle bands.

“Right then,” Professor Lupin said, after assuring everyone had received new unit schedules. “I’d like to start with Muggle pop arts and entertainment. The first assignment I’ll be giving will be Muggle popular music and its reflection of Muggle culture. Please note the following: each of you and your partner will randomly draw the name of a Muggle band from my hat,” Lupin tipped his hand toward a tatty fedora resting on his desk. "Your partner and you will be responsible for a full report on the style of music the band represents, its niche in Muggle society, its social impact on Muggle society, and any other social issues you may discern. If the particular band you are assigned has any significant and unique fashion contributions associated with it, you may also include this information in your report. As you know, most written reports at Hogwarts are of a certain required style --- parchment, quill and ink et cetera. I’d like to encourage you to be creative in your report style --- think outside of the box. In my experience, popular music and culture is ill-suited to confinement within a structured reporting style.”

“What do you mean, 'think outside the box'?” Neville asked, biting his lip quizzically as he listened to Lupin’s response.

"I mean go ahead and be creative, Neville," Lupin said patiently. "If you need ideas or wish to discuss your report with me beforehand, you are most welcome during my office hours." Neville nodded, making a note on his syllabus.

“Does Muggle arts and entertainment include sporting activities?” Flint asked, scanning his outline. Professor Lupin thought for a moment.

“I suppose you could try and talk me into it, Mr. Flint,” Lupin crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. “I’m listening.”

“Well, sporting activities are very important in some cultures --- in some places, who you are as an athlete determines your place and role in society.”

“Go on.”

Flint looked a bit flustered. “Well, that’s all really --- I just like sports,” he finished, rather lamely.

“Your point on sports and culture is well taken; however, I’m inclined to have you stretch your mind a bit more. You'll be pleased to know, Mr Flint, that you will be looking at Sports and Culture in more depth at the N.E.W.T. level, and there will be a unit on this later in the year.”

As she watched the older boy, it occurred to Pansy that Flint really didn't seem capable of thinking his way outside an open door, much less a box. Slouching in his seat, he directed a resentful glare at Draco. “I can’t believe I let myself get roped into this stupid class,” he whinged.

“Well, I didn't ask you to do anything. Fucking flunk again. It's not like anyone here cares.”

Lupin shot a cool glance at Draco.“You are to refrain from uncouth language during class hours, Mr. Malfoy,” he admonished. The muscles in Draco’s jaw ticked, as if he were debating a retort. Finally, saying nothing, he shifted and struck a sulky pose, his elbow on the table, hand supporting his head.

~*~

“What’s the matter?” Pansy leaned in, whispering under her breath as Lupin continued on. He didn’t respond immediately.

“I—I think I may be coming down with a bug,” he finally said. “I just don’t feel . . . myself.” Pansy had to agree with his analysis --- he had distinct bluish circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“Do you want to go back to Madam Pomfrey after class?” she asked, a touch worried. “You’re not looking well at all, Draco.” He shook his head. “Are you sure?” she persisted gently, touching his forearm lightly.

“Yeah.”

Draco was quite positive Madam Pomfrey didn’t have a potion for virgin boys suffering from post-prefect-handjob blues. As he was naturally inclined toward potion making, he made a half-hearted mental note to do some investigative research into more advanced Potions --- there must be something that could restore him to normalcy. Perhaps he could Floo home for an evening, and use his father’s library.

As Lupin’s voice droned on and on, Draco slipped further into a state of static nothingness. He didn’t want to think about anything right now, much less idiot Muggles and how they amused themselves. He felt cocooned in a fuzzy, static state of mental nothingness, as the class continued around him without his notice. After Lupin had stopped wittering, Draco shuffled forward. He heard Susan rustle in Lupin's battered Fedora - he didn't care enough to look, let alone read what was on the slip of paper she extracted. In silence, he walked alongside the others as they made their way to the Great Hall.

"Wait for me," Harry instructed Hermione and Ron, before reluctantly trotting toward the group of Slytherins walking just ahead. "Pansy!" he called out.

She turned, Malfoy following suit in almost perfect unison; Harry felt a twinge of foreboding in his gut as Malfoy stared coldly at him, his hand rising to the small of Pansy's back. Blaise Zabini, Millicent Bulstrode, and Marcus Flint regarded him silently, and three younger Slytherin girls clustered at the fringe of the core group were eyeing him suspiciously. Harry immediately sensed Crabbe and Goyle stepping up behind him --- not touching him, but just uncomfortably close enough for him to sense their malevolence. The hairs on his neck prickled; he cleared his throat. "Look, Pansy," he began, in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone, "I was wondering--"

"You were wondering what exactly?" she interrupted brusquely, her eyes flat and cold.

He kept his cool. Students from all four houses were swarming freely through the corridor; however, he suddenly felt entrapped by a cold and intimidating countenance that he could only vaguely identify as explicitly Slytherin; this angered him immensely --- he felt completely out of his element. Nervously he ran his hand through his hair. "I'm trying to tell you. I'm bogged this week, so I wanted to know if we could do the first section of the Muggle Studies assignment tonight in the library?"

Her expression remained fixed. "Fine," she said icily.

Harry watched as Malfoy edge closer to her; inwardly, he flinched when Malfoy took her hand protectively, a loathsome expression frozen across the Slytherin's angular features as he stared silently at Harry. Pansy herself did not divert her gaze from him; however, she began stroking Malfoy's fingers lightly with her own --- almost absentmindedly, Harry thought, as if it were truly second nature to her. If he hadn't known better he would have thought it . . . delicate. Intimate even. An odd sensation filled Harry's stomach and for a moment he thought he might be physically ill; he swallowed.

"Will eight o'clock work?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"Er, okay. I'll be there at eight, then."

Pansy nodded curtly, turning her back on him; the Slytherins disappeared down the corridor, Crabbe and Goyle making sure to bump Harry roughly as they passed around him to rejoin their housemates.

Draco was shocked to see Waldvogel sitting in his usual place at the head of the Slytherin table, as if nothing were different or wrong; he had no way of knowing that, for C.R., nothing was different or wrong. When he caught sight of the prefect, he froze momentarily --- just for the tiniest of seconds --- and then his insides curdled when Waldvogel’s eyes rose to meet his own. Draco absolutely could not discern any reaction on the part of the older boy. It was if he --- Draco --- was transparent. Waldvogel had looked at him, but moreover it seemed as if he had looked through him. Draco had seen not the slightest flicker of recognition or emotion in the seventh year's eyes.

It frightened him deeply, which in turn angered him, and he forced himself to keep going. He walked the length of the hall, meandering in what he hoped was a casual way amongst the tables and the heavy benches. Nonchalantly, he took his normal seat and began going about his usual routine. In case Waldvogel was watching, Draco forced himself to eat a particularly hearty lunch, overriding his gag reflex and sour stomach.

He felt both a sense of relief and a wave of panic when Pansy sat next to him at the table and began picking at a cup of broth, and nibbling unenthusiastically on a digestive biscuit. They hadn't seen one another since Saturday night. Well, okay, they had technically seen one another, but Draco didn't believe that puking in their opposite beds in the infirmary, or sitting stiffly aside one another in class, exactly constituted 'quality couple time.' As it was he found himself wanting to do nothing but crawl straight into her arms; however, the paralysing fear that his disgrace was palpable and readily apparent kept him in check.

"How are you?" he managed to ask, hoping he sounded normal.

"All right. Well, better anyway. You?"

He wanted to tell her the truth. I'm . . . well, I'm definitely not all right, he wanted to say. He squelched the urge. "I'm . . . tired still."

Pansy nodded and finally met his eyes, a sly grin crossing her face. "You are a cheeky bugger, you know that?"

He knew exactly to what she referred, and a tiny, warm tendril of something unfurled inside him, and licked right through the icy barrier ensconcing his soul. He snorted lightly, a smile playing at his lips. "Likewise."

Pansy had just started to feel comfortable sitting at the Slytherin table, when something pink and delicate whizzed through the air and landed on the table in front of Pansy's cup of broth. It took a moment for her to register fully the fact her missing knickers had just been returned to her. She jerked her head toward the head of the table; C.R. Waldvogel and Fourth Rosier were looking very smug indeed, their arms crossed over their chests, heads cocked, fully smirking.

Shrieking and carrying on in front of the other houses was one thing, for she could not possibly care less what the other houses thought of her; however, histrionics in front of her fellow Slytherins was quite another matter entirely and this was definitely a test. She fully resisted her initial impulse to run screaming from the Great Hall.

Instead, coolly, she considered her fellow prefects. "I'm surprised you didn't fight over who gets to keep them, seeing as this is the closest either of you would ever get to them." The Slytherins seated both up and down the table from her erupted into laughter, and a fleeting look of displeasure flitted across Waldvogel's face; he snorted and grudgingly returned his attention to his lunch. She folded the knickers into a tiny bundle and turned to Draco; leaning in she tucked them deep into the pocket of his robes, and then returned to her broth. Draco considered her with an amused expression as their fellow housemates broke into even more raucous cat-calling and cheers.

"Shall I have them sent out for matting and framing, then?" he asked slyly, clutching at the small bundle through the woollen fabric of his robes, a mischievous smirk slowly crossing his face.

"No, you shall not," she said primly, staring determinedly into her soup, willing the burning at the back of her neck to abate. Draco's gazed was fixed upon the flushed strip of skin peeking from between her hairline and the crisply starched white collar of her uniform blouse; as she contemplated the amber liquid in front of her, swirling her spoon through the broth listlessly, she really had no way of knowing it was then that he came to love her fully.

Later that evening, the library hummed quietly with the undertones of studious concentration when Pansy entered at eight o'clock. As she made her way down the stacks, her distorted reflection trailed behind her against the massive windows stretching up the west side of the library; the cool autumn night air radiated through the ancient panes, and she was grateful for her woollen robes as a tiny chill prickled up her arms. Slinging her rucksack further back, briskly she rubbed her hands up and down her forearms as she trailed through the stacks; finally, she spotted Harry and Ron and marched toward the table.

Ron was scrawling across his parchment with his quill; Harry was fast asleep on the tabletop, his head resting on his right arm, which was stretched across the tabletop. His lips were parted ever so slightly and his back rose and fell softly. She paused for a moment, taking him in. His glasses were slightly askew due to the angle at which his face rested against his bicep as he slept. He had taken off his robes and they were folded over the chair next to him, his Gryffindor emblem facing her, upside down.

"Harry . . ." It sounded like he was being called from underwater; it reminded him of the second task.

He looked around, but could not locate the source of the voice. Smooth, polished wood pressed against his hand; he looked down and trailed his fingers across the cool mahogany surface of his mother's tallboy as he began walking forward. Everything was blue: a rich union-coloured ocean of plush gave way under his steps, and when the top of the tallboy ended, Harry automatically raised his hand and let his fingers run across the roughened texture of the knock-down, painted the same shade of blue as the rug, until he reached a doorway. He clung to the heavy oak trimming the perimeter with both hands and leaned into the frame.

"Harry . . . let me see you, son."

He wasn't sure if he ought to step through the doorway, for he couldn't see a thing through the brilliant light streaming from the place beyond. He decided the light felt nice and proceeded. His mother was waiting; she came to him immediately. It was so simple.

"Oh." Lily put her hand to his cheek, wondrous. "It's really you . . ."

"Hi."

She took his hand and led him from the room. They moved through a kitchen, which felt vaguely familiar to Harry, and rounded the pantry and came to a narrow staircase, which wound upward. Harry followed Lily, winding up the stairs to a small landing, and then ducking through a plain, narrow door, emerging into a warmly decorated hallway. Lily hung back, but Harry knew exactly where to go. He moved forward to a door on the left and turned the knob.

The room was small, but it was his --- small and yellow, with elephants parading merrily atop the wainscoting. His cot sat waiting, a cluster of miniature brooms orbiting over the head of the cot --- the place where he had once lain, presumably, watching the brooms chase one another with the rapt, innocent attention of infancy. Tentatively, Harry reached out and poked one of the tiny brooms. It left its place for moment, zipping around his outstretched finger, before returning to its formation. He sensed his mother coming up behind him.

Something black fluttered in his periphery; Harry turned, spotting the triangular object on the rug. He stooped and retrieved it. It was a Slytherin flag, the silver and emerald emblem blazing up at him from the black felt. He turned to Lily, surprised he felt nothing; silently he handed her the flag. She took it, her fingers caressing the boiled wool of the ebony banner for just a moment before she turned and placed it onto a small dresser behind her. She returned her gaze to Harry.

"You know, you actually didn't sleep in here very often. You liked to sleep with us; I just couldn't bear the thought of you all alone in here at night. Your father said I'd spoil you rotten, but you used to hold my finger in your little hand while you slept, and I couldn't very well give that up, now, could I? I really only laid you down in here for naps." Her voice wavered slightly.

Harry stretched his fingers out in front of him, trying to imagine them as they must have been when he was but a year old --- chubby and uncoordinated, and tiny enough to perfectly grasp his mother's pinkie. Turning, he eyed his mother's hands and held up one of his own. Slowly Lily brought her hand up, resting her warm palm against his outstretched hand. Harry noticed immediately that his hands and fingers were already larger than hers.

She spoke wistfully. "So often I would wake, and just watch you sleep --- right there, between your father and me. It was so lovely."

"Don't." Harry's chest tightened convulsively. "I don't want to hear this."

She looked at him, pleading. "I just want you to know how much I love you."

"Stop it." Harry stared into her eyes, identical to his own. "Nobody says that."

"Oh, Harry," Lily said incredulously, cocking her head, her eyes sad. "Surely . . . you've been told you're loved since I've gone?"

A tremendous surge of anger rose in his throat. He shook his head silently.

Her face fell. Letting her hand drop, Lily turned and wept silently. Harry felt if he could have chosen a single vision for his life thus far, it might have been this: a tear-glistened face half-hidden in the dark, shoulders shaking silently with grief. Swiftly he rounded about her and stood facing her, his arms crossed angrily across his chest. She finally continued, "Well, I told you every day; I always made sure I told you how much I love you."

"Yeah, well you left me now, didn't you?"

"Harry, I-"

"YOU FUCKING LEFT ME!" His mother stared at him silently, stricken. "To -- to this . . . this fucking, PIECE OF SHIT LIFE!"

Lily gathered him to her, wrapping her arms gently around his head; Harry was numb with anger. He immediately recalled the hours he had spent as an eleven-year-old boy, sitting patiently in front of the Mirror of Erised in his thin cotton pyjama bottoms and his baggy Weasley jumper with the sallow golden H on the front, wishing in vain for a moment just like this --- just one moment for him to rest his head against his mother's bosom and to hear her heartbeat thudding inside his head, and to confirm that she really had actually once existed outside of Snape's Pensieve or Moody's crumpled photographs, or in the reminiscent ramblings of a select few. He had always wanted so desperately to believe his mother was more than just the irritating fodder for Petunia's curling sneers.

It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry, the distant voice whispered inside his mind.

Harry believed he surely felt more dead than Lily.

"You should have paid better attention in class!" he accused. "Instead of being all mushy about my Dad . . . you weren't even listening, were you? You weren't listening when Flitwick taught the counter-spell--"

"There is no counter-spell."

"You should have found one!"

"I found a different way to save you."

"It wasn't good enough!"

"I know."

"Mum-"

A tremendous crash came, and Harry ripped his head from his mother's chest, searching for the source.

"Mum," he started again.

"You're so precious, Harry," his mother whispered fiercely.

"No. I'm not." He could barely see her; the brilliant light was back. Lily's fingers brushed his cheek one last time.

"Harry . . . do not bow to death."

With a smirk, Pansy deliberately dropped her rucksack to the table's top with a crash, right next to Harry's head; his eyes flew open and he jerked upward, his left hand slamming down to the table with a heavy slap. "Elephants!" he blurted abruptly, disoriented.

"Seeing things, Potter?" she asked.

He blinked owlishly at her, apparently confused. Ron tipped back casually in his chair, balancing on its two rear legs, his foot pressed against the table's edge. He eyed Harry suspiciously. "You all right, mate?"

Harry's fingertips were curling into the tabletop. "Er . . . uh, yeah. Just a dream."

Ron's brow furrowed slightly in concern; he flicked his gaze to Pansy, and then back to Harry. "Right."

Harry's face was ashen and Pansy noticed a tiny gouge where one of his fingernails had scraped the tabletop; he focused his gaze on her. "Oh. Pansy."

"Potter."

"What? No 'hello' for me?" Ron asked sarcastically; Pansy could see Harry's lip turn up in a tiny smile at this. The colour was slowly returning to his face. She returned her attention to Ron.

"No, actually," she clipped sardonically, throwing a withering glance his way. "Do try and contain your disappointment." Ron made a face at her.

Harry turned to his friend. "You staying?" he asked hopefully.

Ron considered Pansy distastefully before letting the chair fall back into place with a thud; he stood and began gathering his parchment and books. "Sorry, Harry. Too tall an order."

Pansy sniffed. "Oh, it's all right, Weasley. Besides, you don't want to be late for begging scraps from the house elves. Maybe if you're extra pathetic, they'll give you enough to send home to your parents."

"Oh, sod off, Parkinson!" The Gryffindor reddened.

"And remember! In a pinch you can always pawn your prefect badge. There's real gold there."

Harry stood, throwing a withering glance in her direction. "Pansy, just knock it off. Ron, I'll see you later, all right?" She smirked as Harry directed Ron away from the table.

"And you know where you can shove your prefect badge, Parkinson . . ." Weasley threw over his shoulder.

"If you're ever worthy enough to even imagine where I might shove something, I'll let you know. Don't hold your breath."

"You are such a miserable cow--"

Harry gently pushed Ron one last time. "Just go. Now. I'll see you back at the tower." He watched Ron's disappearing figure and sighed, putting his hand to the back of his neck. Turning, his eyes flicked over to where she sat, narrowing angrily. "Why are you so bloody rude all the time?"

Pansy considered him. "I suppose for the same reasons you're so boring all the time. We are who we are, Potter."

He stared angrily at her, absentmindedly scratching his belly. She glimpsed the smooth plane of his abdomen under where his t-shirt rode up --- the slightest hint of a V-shaped shadow indicating where his hip was. "I'm not boring, Pansy."

"Too right you are! I suppose next you'll be arguing that I'm not a bitch." She extracted her Muggle Studies notebook from her bag and slapped it onto the table with a crack; Harry continued rubbing his tummy, glaring at her. She wasn't sure why she was so discomfited; her cheeks unexpectedly began tingling. She clutched her quill more tightly than necessary in her fist as she rolled her eyes. "God! Put your robes on and quit pawing at yourself! Let's get this over with."

Harry flushed; in a flash he covered the short distance between them until his hands were gripping the arms of her chair; he leaned in until his face was level with hers. Pansy could see his chest rising and falling rapidly and he was so close she could smell the Quidditch on him --- she knew the scent from Draco.

"You know what? Shut the fuck up, Pansy," he hissed.

Incensed, she stood up, forcing him to follow as she knocked his hands away. "What?"

For a moment she actually thought he might bump his chest against her in some kind of ridiculous, gaudy show of dominance. Instead he stepped back slowly; turning, he reached for his school robes and pulled them on, deliberately taking his time, making sure they were in place. He snapped the clasp, staring at her angrily, his mouth drawn in a surly line. "I said to shut up. Did you not understand me?" He snorted. "Surely it's a request you're quite used to hearing."

Pansy sunk back into her chair, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest huffily; her face felt like it was on fire. "Of course I understood you, you stupid dolt," she sneered. "However, I can't even begin to imagine what makes you think I'd temper my opinions on your command. I don't have to shut up! Just because you're Dumbledore's good little pet doesn't mean you get to tell the rest of us what to do!" She glared at him, livid. In four years she had never once seen Harry Potter display any kind of serious temper before; a strange sensation fluttered through her stomach.

They glowered at one another. In her periphery Pansy caught sight of a figure drawing closer.

He shook his head slightly, two bright spots of colour burning on his cheeks. "You are so . . . so horrid. All you Slytherins are!" His jaw ticked dangerously and she felt a flash of trepidation. "You know, I really loathe you."

She stared at him for a moment, supressing the urge to laugh. "Oh God, Potter, and do you know? I really don't care. In fact . . . good."

"Mr. Potter? Miss Parkinson?" Madam Pince's voice unexpectedly cut through their argument, breaking their tense riposte; they both started and turned to face her. Hands on her hips, the librarian continued, "What on earth is the problem here? Mr. Potter! Explain your rudeness to Miss Parkinson to me this instant."

Harry stared at the librarian, stunned. "What're you talking about?" he asked, incredulous. "She's the one who star--"

"Nonsense! When I came up to warn you to keep your voices down, I heard you, Mr. Potter, make a deliberately rude statement to Miss Parkinson about Slytherin House."

Pansy felt smugly vindicated; her chin rose haughtily as she stared at Harry, triumphant.

He was aghast. "But, Madam Pince--"

The librarian put up her hand, cutting off his protestation. "Last chance, Mr. Potter. Explain to me your actions."

His face took on a surly expression. "No," he said finally, looking out the window, angry.

"Well, I must say I'm disappointed. Ten points from Gryffindor, then, for your impudence." The librarian extracted a small roll of parchment and a mini Quik Quotes quill from her robes.

Pansy was delighted. "Ha!" Her glee slipped out quite inadvertently, before she could stop herself; she clapped both her hands over her mouth. Madam Pince glanced up, raising her eyebrow in warning, and she quickly feigned innocence for the librarian's benefit. As Madam Pince's head dropped again to attend to her note, Pansy tossed her quill at Harry's arm; when he looked over, seething, she mouthed the word again: Ha!

Madam Pince finished and tucked her quill and parchment away. "I shall be reporting this to Professor McGonagall in the morning, Mr. Potter. Do see that you refrain from personal attacks on the members of houses other than your own." With a rustle of her robes, the librarian disappeared, continuing with her rounds.

Pansy stood and crossed the short distance to his chair; holding both arms of the chair, just has he had, she lowered her face to his until they were practically nose to nose. Her voice shook slightly as she spoke in a low drawl, "You don't know anything about me, Potter. And maybe I am the Slytherin here, but I'm not the one with Voldemort crawling around inside my head now, am I? Funny that."

~*~

An hour passed with neither of them speaking; Harry was furious with her --- utterly livid. However, he was beginning to tire; he knew they would not be allowed to stay in the library past eleven, and he was full aware his schedule would not easily allow for a second study session for almost ten days.

He looked at her, and fought the urge to physically shudder in distaste. She was sulking in her chair like a wounded princess, her arms crossed angrily across her chest. She had crossed her right leg over her left knee, and her foot bounced rhythmically in an angry circular pattern. Her face was set in a hard, angry expression, which Harry knew in and of itself was not particularly unusual. He noticed her school robe had parted slightly; her knee poked through the folds and he was momentarily distracted by the pale skin between the hem of her skirt and the top of her kneesock.

She turned her head slightly just then, examining him from the corner of her eye. Harry stared back, vexed; finally, an idea born of frustration plucking at his brain, he picked up his quill; without taking his eyes from her, he slapped his hand angrily to the tabletop, his hand landing perfectly upon the small pile of blank sheets of parchment he had arranged to his right. He slid the fresh sheet of parchment across the table, and dipped his quill in his ink.

When he finished writing, he pushed the parchment roughly across the table at her. She glowered as if he had pushed a basket of fresh road apples at her as an offering, and rolled her eyes ever so slightly, her foot still tracing its pattern of furious circles; however, her hand finally snaked out and she placed it gingerly over the parchment, as if it were a soiled nappy. Harry felt his anger well up again at her egregious impossibility. Why couldn't she just be . . . just be normal, like . . . well, a Gryffindor? The thought of actually having to hold a conversation with Hermione through quill and parchment in order to complete a simple class assignment was so inane, so foreign, Harry almost laughed aloud. He absolutely could not believe he was in the position of having to cater to the infantine petulance of an antagonistic Slytherin female. He watched her, his eyes narrowed. Snooty. Bullying. Cruel. Short-sighted. She's all these things and worse.

She was picking up the parchment now, by its corner between her forefinger and thumb, her mouth twisted into a deep scowl as she read the words he had penned.

Harry was indignant. Bitch.

~*~

Pansy read his note.

The name of the Muggle band is Pink Floyd, it read.

She dropped the parchment back to the table; leaning sideways over her chair, she pulled up her bag. She extracted her bottle of emerald ink and her favourite quill. With a final withering glance at Harry, she dipped her quill and wrote, and then pushed the parchment back across the table at him.

~*~

Fascinating, she had written. Who is Floyd, and why is he pink? Go on --- titillate me with your Muggle knowledge.

Despite himself, he admired her impeccable script, for it really was lovely, the not-quite-dry emerald ink shining up at him from the beige page.

Harry wrote back and pushed the paper to her.

~*~

I'm not sure why the band is called Pink Floyd, or whether Floyd is actually a person.

She rolled her eyes and dipped her quill.

~*~

You're not very useful after all, are you?

He scrawled his response and pushed it back toward her. As she picked it up, Harry dug through his bag and brought out the set of materials Professor Lupin had prepared for him and Pansy to use. It was odd to see regular white paper in the context of Hogwarts; the faint, tangy smell of Muggle copier ink reminded Harry of his years in the State primary system. He flipped quickly through the stapled packets of handouts, making a neat stack as he perused them. Lyrics said one. Discography said another. General Overview: A History of Muggle Popular Music in Britain, Pink Floyd: The Wall; A Critical Analysis, and Pink Floyd: Selected Essays joined the pile. Finally, he plunked five three-inch obsidian discs onto the table --- the recordings.

~*~

I expect I'm useful in certain situations. If you care so much, maybe you should research where the name Pink Floyd comes from.

She sniffed. Rolling her quill between her thumb and forefinger, she thought for a moment, and then dipped it in the ink.

~*~

Believe what you will --- I do find your egrandisation ever so amusing. Re: me researching the name origins? Fine, then, I shall.

Irritated, Harry lifted his eyes from the parchment just in time to see her gently pulling the stack of study materials across the table. Meeting his eyes, she smirked, and picked up the first guide from the top of the stack: Lyrics. She examined the staple at the top corner of the pages for a moment; tipping her chair back, she balanced herself as Ron had done earlier. With a final hard stare, Pansy licked the pad of her thumb delicately and turned her attention to the assignment. Carefully, she began looking through the hand-out.

Harry wondered if it was morally deficient on his part, that he really, really liked the way she had touched the tip of her tongue to her thumb.

Shaking his head, he re-inked his quill and wrote again.

~*~

Well, I guess my egrandisation is useful to you, because you are now amused. Anyway, I guess we should probably focus on the lyrics analysis of this assignment, because the other stuff can be done on our own. Lupin wants to know each of our interpretations of the music, so that part I guess we'll have to do together.

~*~

She rolled her eyes and wrote back. I can't imagine of what interest Muggle politics will be to me, nor why we ought to discuss them --- what relevance will they have to our lives?

~*~

Muggles are relevant to my life. Harry finished writing the sentence and pushed the parchment back across the table. He stood and began collecting the materials; considering each item. He supposed he would have to leave some with her, as they had made very little progress, owing to their disagreement.

She looked at him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving. You've wasted our time. Madam Pince will be closing down in just a few minutes." He was in no mood for conversation.

She was looking pointedly at his hand. "What's that on your hand?"

Harry glanced down. The faintest trace of Umbridge's detention remained. "It's nothing."

She shrugged. She arranged the study guides Lupin had provided neatly and tucked them into her bag.

"I was hoping to get this done tonight," he said, accusatory. "We'll need to schedule another meeting to put it all together."

Pansy nodded; she was tired and not up to arguing. "You can let me know when you're available."

"Fine." Harry shouldered his rucksack and walked away.

~*~

Saturday came rather quickly it seemed.

"Draco?" He looked up from the Quidditch magazine he was reading on his bed. Pansy stood in the doorway of his room holding a strange black box by a handle extending from its top.

"You shouldn't be here, Pans," he said, stating the obvious. "You could have points taken."

"Come out with me?" she asked, tilting her head, beguiling.

"Where to?"

She held up the black contraption awkwardly, and shrugged her shoulders slightly. "Homework for Muggle Studies. I learned how to work this thing, but we need to take it outside the wards. It's such a pretty day . . . I thought you might want to get out?"

Surprisingly, Draco found he actually did want to get out. He wanted to be with her and an unexpected sense of relief flooded through him, for he had honestly begun to wonder if he'd ever want to be in the company of people ever again. He flipped his legs over the side of the bed, planting them firmly on the floor and ran his hand through his tousled hair.

"I haven't showered yet . . . ."

"I'll wait for you to shower."

"Who showed you how to use that thing anyway?" he asked, and immediately regretted the question as he registered her defensive reaction. His lip curled. "Oh, how silly of me. Of course."

She narrowed her eyes at him and put up her free hand. "Don't even. Go wash up. I'll wait for you downstairs. And if you take longer than fifteen minutes, I'm going by myself."

"But, Pans. . ."

"Fourteen minutes, fifty-five seconds."

He hurriedly gathered his toiletries.

It was indeed a perfect autumn day. The sky glowed the finest of blues and the sun was warm against their backs as Pansy and Draco traipsed from the castle in an easterly direction, pausing only to pick the occasional cockles from their socks. Every few minutes Pansy pushed a button on the black box, to see if they had cleared the wards. Finally, the box emitted the strange sound of Muggle pop music.

"Right then," she said, stopping to survey their locale. Her blue eyes scanned the rolling hills; the castle had long disappeared behind them.

The heather and gorse swayed gently --- the breeze which licked constantly at their tops coaxed the vast moor into an flowing sea of reedy waves. Draco transferred Pansy's rucksack to his other shoulder as he looked about. "There's a tree over there," he said, pointing. "That'll do." They walked silently toward the twisting ash.

Once there Pansy put the portable stereo down at the foot of the tree and with a flick of her wand cast a cushioning charm on the ground beneath its branches. "Tener," she incanted, and then with several circular movements of her wand and a second charm, a conjured green and silver quilt appeared above their heads and drifted down onto the ground. Draco dropped the rucksack onto the quilt's corner and collapsed in its centre, rolling onto his back, his fingers laced casually behind his head. They could see the blue sky peeking through the foliage and the occasional golden leaf came drifting down at them from the towering ash. Pansy flopped down next to Draco on her stomach and began rummaging through her bag. As she fumbled with the Muggle stereo, he admired her calves as she casually kicked her legs up behind her, demurely crossing her feet at the ankles. She inserted some kind of rectangular cartridge into a door on the box and closed it into the box's interior. She had already patiently explained to him that they were called cassette tapes, and Muggles somehow managed to store music and sound on them.

She poked at the top of the box and Muggle music filled the air. Satisfied with her mechanical prowess, Pansy rolled onto her side and propped her head on her left hand. Her right hand plucked absentmindedly at her skirt, and she twirled a stray thread from her hem around her index finger --- over and again.

"This music is totally bizarre," Draco noted after several minutes --- and it was. There were no bagpipes.

"It's not so bad, I suppose."

"Who's the band?"

"I wrote it down. Hang on, I'll check." She pulled her finger free from the thread and reached to pull her notes from her bag. Draco caught her by the wrist as she moved toward her rucksack.

"I don't care that much."

"Well, you'll have to know eventually. Might as well be now."

"I said," he teased, "that I don't care."

The corner of her mouth lifted. "Fine. We can just listen then."

"Forget the music. Kiss me."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"All right." Playfully she ducked in and gave him a peck on the cheek. Before he could react she rolled away from him back onto her stomach and hid her face in her arms.

"That's not what I meant," he pouted, sidling over to her. She peeked up at him from the crook of her arm, grinning, but he wore a bit of a peculiar expression on his face and the smile faded from her face. He needs something. "Come on, Pansy. Kiss me."

"Okay." She sat up and he followed suit. He turned her to him and pulled her toward his lap.

"Put your legs around me," he whispered.

"Okay." She did, wishing suddenly she had worn something other than a skirt. Situated, she stared inquisitively into his grey eyes. Something wasn't right.

"Draco? What's the matt--"

But then he was kissing her and she didn't get to finish her query.

For a moment she lost herself, for she had missed this --- missed him. She brought her hand up to his face and trailed her fingers down the side of his neck. She would never tire of kissing him. A familiar warmth began creeping through her body.

Yet still. . .something was wrong.

From the very first time Draco had kissed her, he had done so perfectly; today, however, he was a touch sloppy and seemed to be demanding something from her with his mouth and tongue --- something he was unable to verbalise. She tried to pull away; Draco quickly brought his hand to the back of her neck and pulled her back in. And then some kind of strangled sound came from the back of his throat, almost as if he were forcing himself to not blurt something out. It took a moment before she realised with horror that he was crying. Reflexively she pulled back and scrambled away from him, backwards across the quilt, her chest heaving as she came to a halt across from him, dragging the sleeve of her jumper across her mouth. She was too shocked to dutifully hide her revulsion.

"What's wr--What are you doing?" she demanded, her lip curling. In sixteen years she had never once seen him cry.

Mortified, Draco pressed the back of his sleeve against his eyes. "Fucking, sodding hell," he burst out. He had no idea what was happening --- this had welled up unexpected and uninvited. Through the shimmering, prism-like film of tears he could see Pansy staring at him , and he fully registered her distaste. A shame deeper and more far reaching than anything Waldvogel could have ever possibly inflicted upon him ignited; a wave of rage rose up, surging through his body, and in a flash he had his new wand trained on her. Pansy's eyes widened, and he caught the flash of emotion very, very few people would ever see reflected in her visage: Compassion. It infuriated him thoroughly.

"Draco," she started, hesitantly bringing her curled finger to her lips. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, fuck you," he hissed.

Any possible retort she might have thrown died instantly, unspoken in her throat.

His wand hand shook ever-so-slightly. "You had way too much to drink. You got so sloppily drunk that you passed right out," he hissed. "And you left me to Waldvogel and Rosier."

She was quickly affronted. "What are you going on about? I didn't mean to, you great sodding prat! Now get that out of my face." She was incensed.

"I was there. With Waldvogel. . .and Rosier." He was completely out of control, emotionally; he could not remember a time where he had wanted to hurt her so viscerally, to somehow infuse her with his torment.

"Oh please!" Pansy scoffed. "If you were so worried about your status with the other prefects you wouldn't have been drinking Muggle liquor in the first--" She stopped abruptly, in mid sentence. Wait a minute. Wait just one bloody minute. She had heard whispered rumours about C.R. Waldvogel, about his predilections. Shit. Something clicked in her brain and her stomach turned over, and for a moment she believed she would be sick. "Waldvogel," she whispered. "No. Oh no. Draco?"

She couldn't decide from the look on his face whether he was relieved she had put two and two together, or if he might rashly put his wand to his own head and mumble the killing curse. Tentatively, she reached toward him and a steely resolve came over his face; Pansy shut her eyes reflexively, for she intuitively knew when a spell was imminent.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Pansy felt her body arc strangely into the paralysing rigidity of the Petrificus Totalus hex, and through her shock she vaguely registered her head meeting the cushioned quilt only to slip from its cushioned edge to hit the ground with a dull thud. Ow, she thought, completely stunned. She jerked her eyes upward to where he stood and saw him drop silently. She couldn't imagine being more gobsmacked than she already was; however, she was quickly proven wrong as she felt his arms stretching across her midriff, pulling the edge of the quilt into fisted bunches, and then a soft thump as he let his head drop between his arms onto her midriff; the eerie sound of him crying terrified her completely. Beneath the paralysis of the Petrificus, Pansy's mind and senses were on fire, and she could only listen helplessly as he poured his darkest and most shameful bit of his soul into the soft, concave recess of her belly, the bitter sound drifting upward, only to be swallowed indifferently into the perfect autumn sky.

It was a full two hours after Draco stopped before he could bring himself to lift the Petrificus Totalus, for it had taken him that long to even begin to come to terms with what he had done. Not only had he had revealed his shameful secret --- and she now knew he was disgraced --- but he had also hurt her physically. He didn't want to let go of her though, and he knew the instant he lifted the spell she would march her haughty little self over the gorse-covered hill, and out of his life forever. And rightfully so he thought, yet he wanted her to be his for just a little longer; however, he himself had been petrified before --- as a punishment --- and he knew very well that her muscles and body would be aching terribly by now from the forced paralysis. He pressed his fingers into his eyes one last time; they burned and felt raw, and his inner lids seemed gritty and scratched against his eyeballs when he blinked. He sighed.

The shadows grew longer as Draco sat motionless, his back to Pansy. Finally, suppressing his urge to succumb to a final fit of emotion, he pointed his wand rather aimlessly over his shoulder and hoped his keen peripheral skills as a seeker would come in handy. He couldn't bear to look at her.

"Finite."

He heard a small groan of relief escape from her and a moment later he saw her shadow cross his periphery as she made her way over the hill, just as he knew she would.

The music was on its third round and the words droned on, meaningless, through his brain; Draco had no idea how to shut off the Muggle contraption, so he left it playing, rather than bothering to learn the intricate process of pressing the button labelled STOP with his index finger.

"So, did he assault you or something?"

Draco jumped at the unexpected sound of her voice, his heart leaping into his throat. "I figured you'd gone back to the castle."

"Well excuse me for having to pee," she said waspishly. "Not that you should be surprised or anything, what with me spending a long, glorious afternoon languishing under the Petrificus spell." She moved to stand in front of him, hands on her hips, glaring down. "I have a crick in my neck. Thanks ever so much . . ."

He found himself unexpectedly elated at her return, although not for the obvious reason; he was not going to waste the opportunity.

". . .and you do realise that I actually had to partake of a shrub just now, don't you? That's right, a shrub!"

He looked at her and was struck by how pretty he thought she was, her insolent face highlighted by the waning rays of the afternoon sun. He raised his wand against her for the second time ever.

"Obliviate!" His wand kicked back slightly.

Pansy's body shuddered as the spell hit her, but she remained standing. After a moment passed she opened her eyes and her face took on an hard expression. Finally she narrowed her eyes and spoke, her voice low and predatory. "You are so lucky that I tolerate your mere existence, you great sodding sod," she said coldly. "Never cast a spell you don't really mean, Draco. Of all people, you should know that. So, on top of everything else, you've now given me a raging headache. God."

Undoubtedly the jig would be up at this juncture. "Why are you still here?" he asked abruptly, a spark of his imperious nature flashing.

She snorted. "Did he bugger you?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Oh, that's convincing."

"No. No. He did not." Draco shifted slightly, extremely uncomfortable discussing this with her, despite his strong visceral need to do so. He felt her come up behind him, sensed her sitting down. "I'd have killed him first. I would have, Pansy." Then he felt the warmth of her chest pressing against his back and her hands at his sides as she situated herself; she straddled her legs on either side of his and laid her head against his back. "I would have killed him." Her arms crept around his waist and she intertwined her fingers, holding on to him. For quite some time they sat that way together, not moving.

"You remember what we did at the lake that night," he said finally.

"Yes."

"You remember what you did . . . to me? For me?"

"Yes."

"He finished it." He thought she would surely leave now.

"Hmm."

It was at least better not having to look her in the face. He took a deep breath and released it with a catch. "I'll always be reminded of that fucking son of a bitch." There. He had said it. After a moment he continued on bleakly, "This is never going to go away. Waldvogel. . . ."

"You don't know that! Just because you feel this way right now does not mean you always will."

He gave a wry snort. "Who'd have thought he'd be the first person to--" He froze then, for her fingers were fumbling at his belt, unbuckling it. "Pansy . . . what are you doing?"

"How can you even say that?" She sounded deeply offended. "He was most certainly not the first --- I was the first! And he doesn't--I mean, obviously it's different because I --- He'll never. . ." His belt was undone now; Pansy worked the top button of his trousers open with her nimble fingers. Draco's heart pounded in his chest and he simultaneously experienced both a monstrous welling of panic and an absurd, fleeting sense of gratitude that he had bothered to take a quick, but very thorough shower before their outing. She pulled his zipper down halfway, which was sufficient enough for her purposes. He closed his eyes as her smooth, warm hand slid inside his shorts and wrapped around him.

"Don't," he hissed, mortified.

"Shh . . . it's okay . . . ."

"You don't have to do thi--"

"I know I don't," she said, tilting her head upward and resting it against his woollen jumper; her chin fit perfectly into the sinewy groove where his shoulder curved upward to blend into his neck. He felt her breath, sweet and warm, against his ear; he let his head drop slightly as he turned his face toward her, his gaze shifting sideways.

"Pansy--"

"I love you, Draco." A searing jolt of emotion sliced right through him; her voice hitched slightly as she whispered plaintively into his ear, "I always have . . . ."

Despite his panic, in a strange juxtaposition that only human emotion and hormones could underwrite, he found he was instantly harder than any time he could remember. "I--"

"Just shut up."

She pressed against his back, intent on her task; he relaxed slightly, a bit less terrified, the Muggle music still playing in the background hammering away relentlessly at his brain. Her touch felt exquisite, and the question of whether he would ever in his pitiful, godforsaken life be able to hold off for longer than forty-five seconds loomed uninvited in his mind.

"Oh shit, Pansy--" His eyes were beginning to burn again and he bit down --- hard --- to keep from making any noise as he came, the metallic tang of blood teasing his tongue, seeping from where his teeth had breached the skin of his lip.

The sun was dipping closer to the horizon and her hand was still tucked warmly inside his shorts. He took her by the wrist and gently extracted her hand from his undone trousers, reaching for his wand with his free hand.

"I'll clean--"

She jerked her hand from his grasp. "No." He turned fully around to look at her, surprised. "It's fine," she continued, her expression guarded.

"Actually it's rather sticky, and when it starts to dry--"

"It's you. It's fine." She looked at him defiantly, daring him to challenge her; something inside Draco shifted and he watched as she first examined her hand closely, and then held it away from her, as if admiring a particularly fine manicure, turning her up her palm for him to consider. "See? There's nothing there. Not really, anyway." She stood and smoothed down her skirt, and then crossed the quilt and punched the STOP button on the black box. The ensuing silence was more deafening in its contrast than the past four hours of music had been. Draco fixed his trousers. She gathered her things, banishing the quilt. "Hmm," she mused thoughtfully, as the quilt disappeared, "I hope it was okay to do magic outside the wards. I didn't even think about that. Oh well, I expect we'll know from Snape soon enough if we violated any rules --- although I suppose we'd have received a Hopkirk memo straight away if we had." She turned and began walking in the direction of the castle. "Bring the stereo-thingy would you?"

Draco did not follow; the events of the afternoon were pushing at him again --- dense, clotted, depressive --- and trepidation again fluttered up his spine. However, a different realisation --- one of a potentially intriguing complication --- niggled namelessly at his conscience; exactly when it had been added into his jumbled train of thought he was unsure.

Sensing he wasn't following, Pansy stopped, turning back to look at him. She rolled her eyes. "Gods, Draco. What is it now?"

"If you ever tell anyone about today, I'll--"

"You'll do what exactly?" She fixed a hard gaze on him. "Yes, what will you do to me that's worse than what you've already done? Go ahead --- amuse me. I can't wait to hear how you're planning to top yourself."

He stared at her defiantly.

She sneered ever so slightly. "What? Are you afraid someone'll find out you're actually capable of human emotion --- of crying? Spoil your big, bad facade?" Draco said nothing; he averted his eyes to consider the gnarled bark of the ash, raking it with his gaze. She continued, "You overestimate your own importance, and really --- it's such an unattractive quality, not to mention dangerous. You know, you really are lucky I can stand you."

He absolutely recognised her warning. "I just-- I want--" he started, ineptly fumbling for the right words.

"You want revenge?" The word hung in the air between them like a dense, swarming cloud of gnats --- occluding, buzzing --- only to be gone in the blink of an eye. "Well, it makes sense. But, please. Do focus on the right target, won't you?"

And suddenly it was clear: Draco realised he had needed to hear this said aloud, had truly needed some kind of tangible goal upon which he could both focus his anger and hang his tenuous state of mind; she had accurately identified this specific need, and he came to relish that she understood him completely. For the first time since the incident with Waldvogel he felt as if he had some kind of personal direction, and the realisation was like a miracle potion. Waldvogel's face flashed through his mind, and an inky black vengeance began spreading through his guts --- slow and seeping and alive.

Waldvogel. Draco mouthed the name imperceptibly, bitterly savouring the silent utterance. He'll be sorry.

"I'll help you of course," Pansy said simply; turning, she walked away, and disappeared over the flaxen hill.