Adjudication

Adjudication

Ron Weasley really had no way of knowing institutions of all kinds, Muggle and Wizarding alike, share an innate scent -- if they are kept to standard, that is. In some ways perhaps the institutions actually kept to standard were worse than those left to chance and neglect, for the bleak, sterile smell of bleaching charms hung more than just proper sanitation into the still air of the silent halls. The scent of bleach always made Ron think of the colour white, which, okay, was probably a given; however, white had always been unsettling to him. White was the colour of purity, the colour of wealth and leisure. White was the colour of unconcern. As a boy there was no way in hell Ron could have ever chosen white clothing; if the item was stained or ruint, a replacement would never be forthcoming. White, for him, was the the colour of lacking. He didn't lack anymore, yet his aversion was an ingrained, haunting sense that occasionally bucked inside him, and it was a feeling he had long ago come to understand would never completely go away.

Things clean were really not, he'd finally realised. Bleaching charms were meant to cast away virulence; however, Ron had come to learn the sterile scent only masked the ghostly rot of forgotten humanity, and as he moved through the corridors, tall and smooth and official, only the occasional rubbery squeak from the sole of his shoe catching against the over-buffed, cheap tile flooring interrupted the incessant whisperings of the wispy, chlorinated spectres permeating the winding labyrinth cut into the towering rock: I am here. I am sick. I was here. I was sick. I didn't choose that which I was born into. The moment I took my first breath, it was already too late. Before I understood informed consent, it was too late. My parents didn't teach me another way; how could I know to teach myself? I was only a child. It made sense at the time. It was just one time . . . just one time. I want to think differently, but I don't know how, and I'm too old to learn a different way. I didn't know when I would eat. I didn't know Christmas was supposed to be a special day. I wish I had never been born. My mother wishes I had never been born. My father wishes I had never been born. I have nothing. I am nothing, and I am sick and I am hopeless and there is no cure for me. I would kill you if I could. It is just too late. It's too late. It's too bloody late.

Ron walked unhurriedly toward the maximum security sector; white light bounced from the white floors onto the white walls, and his eyes stung in protest of the brightness.

A witch sat at a white desk, perched atop a white chair. She glanced up as Ron approached. "Ron," she acknowledged, smiling. "You know the drill."

He emptied his pockets into a small bin: badge, identification, wand, a wad of Muggle pounds he had been meaning to drop to his father weeks ago, a pack of Droobles he'd nicked from Neville's desk, a peppermint sugar quill. "Hey, Susan. How are you?"

"I'm well," she said, much too brightly, pulling her wand and circling it over his things with a practised air. "Revelo." Ron waited patiently as she scanned his belongings. "Very good!" she said finally, pronouncing him contraband-free. She turned to him, twirling her wand. "Ready?"

His hands fisted unconsciously at his sides in preparation. "Yeah. Go ahead."

"Legilimens."

Now then Mardy Bum
I see you're frowning
it's like looking down the barrel of a gun
And it goes off
and out come all these words.
Oh, there's a very pleasant side to you.
A side I much prefer
is one that laughs and jokes around.

Remember cuddles in the kitchen, yeah,
to get things off the ground.
It was up up and away
Oh, but it's 'ry hard to remember that
on a day like today
when you're all argumentative,
when you've got the face on . . .

---

By seventh year they had graduated to Greenhouse Eleven for their Herbology lessons, and, solely because of the layout of the place, Ron was very much missing the good old days when Gryffindor had been paired with Hufflepuff for Herbology. Small worktables filled the greenhouse, two feet apart from one another, which meant a constant state of bumping arse with the Slytherins, which was, of course, completely intolerable. He and Harry had spent the first month of school mired in the Restricted Section, which made Hermione's eye shine with pride; of course they both thought this look rather suited her, so neither disclosed they were in actuality looking for some kind of charm that would send a concentrated shock of electricity through the unsuspecting buttocks of any Slytherin who happened to touch bumpers with them during Herbology.

"You know the world's gone mad," Ron said, flipping through his twentieth book that day, "when I'm spending my free time revising arse charms." Grumpily, he slapped the book shut and slid it aside. Taking another from the stack, he plopped it in front of him on the table top, but didn't open it. Slumping sideways, he rested his cheek in his hand, slouching against the ball of his fist so that his mouth was pulled sideways. "Maybe we ought to think about something else. How 'bout a pox hex?" he mumbled, his lips uncomfortably stretched.

"Naw." Over the top of the book Harry's unruly fringe was the only thing Ron could see. "Not subtle enough. I don't particularly fancy Hermione lecturing us over this."

"Yeah," Ron conceded.

"So, keep looking."

"Yeah. All right."

---

"As you know, part of your Herbology N.E.W.T. is a year-long project. I shall allow you to choose from five topics, which are listed on the hand-out," Professor Sprout said cheerily, standing on two upside-down buckets to be seen. "Today's lesson is a pre-cursor to individualising your projects. I shall partner you up, and then off you'll go." She waved a hand toward the greenhouse door. "The moor awaits!" She lumbered stiffly down from her perch. "Goats' bollocks!" she winced, rubbing at her back. "Gets me every time." Sprout began making her rounds as they made to pack up their rucksacks. "Brown, Lavender. Bulstrode, Millicent . . ."

Ron leaned into Hermione, reading down the list of topics available for independent study over her shoulder. "Well?" he asked. "What's it going to be for you?"

"I haven't decided yet," she said briskly. "I want to think about it. You know, decide which project is most beneficial to me overall."

"What about reading about something you actually like?" he suggested.

She gave him a small smile. "I like learning. Beyond that, it's all practicalities."

"I don't think it's necessarily practical to be a swotty know-it-all, Hermione."

She poo-pooed him with a wave of her hand. "Rubbish! It's important to think about all aspects of things, and to figure how they fit into one's overall plan. Anyhow," she shouldered her rucksack, "I'll enjoy whatever topic I pick. I always do."

"Granger, Hermione. Goyle, Gregory . . . "

Ron resisted the urge to laugh as Hermione's face fell, and he glanced out of the corner of his eye to find Harry disguising his amusement as a barking cough. "Or . . . then again, maybe not?" he teased, grinning lopsidedly.

"You know," Hermione said crossly, nicking her parchment from the table with a snap, "I really wish you both would just openly mock me, instead of assuming I'm daft and won't notice you chortling amongst yourselves. I don't know what you're thinking with that fake cough, Harry, but I'm here to tell you that you're terribly indiscreet -- both of you!" She huffed away from the table, indignant. "Subtlety, thy name is neither Potter nor Weasley . . . ."

Ron snorted into the back of his sleeve, grinning. Rousing Hermione was always a fun accomplishment. "Bloody hell, she gets worse every year!"

Harry considered him, a smile still playing at his lips, and he leaned forward, folding his arms across the tabletop. "Yeah, well, not like you mind, right?" he asked.

Ron pulled a face. "'Scuse me? Dunno what you're going on about." But he smiled anyway, looking down to pick at his parchment, his ears pinking.

"Ron likes himself a swotty bird, yeah," Harry went on, ribbing him lightly.

"Oi!"

Harry tipped his chair back, balancing on its back legs, considering him. "It's not a big deal. Everyone knows."

"Could we not talk about this, mate?"

Harry shrugged. "All right." Obligingly, he moved on. "So, now that you've moved from Keeper to Beater, I've been thinking about our plays, and I got this idea for a formation of plays, actually. It kinda just popped into--"

"Parkinson, Pansy. Patil, Parvati," Professor Sprout was saying; she paused to give Harry's ear a small tweak. "Manners, Mr. Potter. No talk of Quidditch right now, if you please."

Harry rubbed at his ear. "Yes, Professor."

Sprout pushed at the back of his chair, setting him down with a thump. "Safety first, Mr. Potter. Safety first! Now, where was I? Oh, yes . . . Parkinson, Pansy. Patil, Parvati--"

"Ooo, Professor Sprout?" Lavender Brown rose from her seat, her hand waving excitedly. "Parvati's ill today. She's a terrible cold, a gash, a rash, and purple bumps! I took her down to Madam Pomfrey this morning, and she's in hospital."

"Thank you for that information, Miss Brown." Sprout scrawled on her parchment, making a note. "Very well, Parkinson, Pansy. Potter, Harry . . . "

Ron couldn't help himself -- he laughed out loud. "Ha!" he said, slapping the table with his palm. "Ha!"

"No!" Harry looked as if Sprout had just personally offered to saw off his hands with the massive stuffed swordfish which, oddly, adorned her office wall. "Professor?"

She waved at him dismissively, moving on. "I've no time for further substitutions. Make do." She continued on. "Thomas, Dean . . . "

"That's not on!" Harry objected, sinking lower in his chair. He looked past Ron, over to where Pansy Parkinson and her insipid, catty girlfriends were hunched over their table. "Pack of vultures, those bints," he said.

Ron leaned forward, grinning wickedly. "Enjoy your 'swotty bird,' Harry."

"Sod off," Harry groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

"Ha!"

Professor Sprout finished calling out the list. "Weasley, Ronald. And . . . Zabini, Blaise. Very good!"

"Bugger!" Ron's lip curled in indignation. "Zabini? That bloke who's always skulking about, thinking he's all enigmatic and . . . and . . . " He struggled to find the right word. "Italian?"

"Ha!" Harry returned the sentiment just as triumphantly.

"Fuck off."

"Hello, boys!" Pansy Parkinson's voice oozed around them as she came up to them and dropped her rucksack in the middle of their table; she perched herself lightly on its top with a deft hop, squashing Ron's hand under her backside in the process. Her gaggle of Slytherin girlfriends sniggered ferociously and she swept her midnight eyes over Ron, her nose wrinkling slightly with distaste, before fixing her gaze upon Harry. "Potter."

Ron yanked his hand away. "Don't put your fat arse on my hand, bint! I might be maimed!"

"And here I thought you might welcome the opportunity to cop a feel," she retorted coolly, deigning to shoot him another glance as she wiggled backward an inch or so and daintily crossed one leg over the other at the knee. "About the only way you'd ever manage it, God knows . . . ."

Ron shifted in his seat, rolling his eyes, the ball of his hand digging into his cheek again. "No s'not," he objected, loathing her mere existence. "'Sides, I don't see any queue forming up behind you! Not as if your sodding bum's got a fanclub or somesuch!"

"A fanclub of one is quite enough, if the member in question is important enough," she said.

"Oh right, of course. Malfoy's important," he said, slouching in his seat. "Except NOT."

She lifted her chin haughtily. "Harry," she said, after a moment, turning her head away from Ron as Blaise Zabini materialised behind him, seemingly from nowhere. "Shall we?"

Harry looked at her as if she'd sprouted antlers again. "Harry? Don't call me Harry."

"Why's that?" She tutted exaggeratedly. "Poor Potter. Do you wish your Mummy'd named you something more exotic? Say, 'Juan' or 'Foom Vong'? Honestly, do you have an imaginery friend as well? How quaint."

Ron gave Harry a confused look. "Juan?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You can call me 'Potter'," he instructed her.

Her lips quirked slightly in a tight, close-lipped smile. "Whatever you prefer," she said, hopping down from the tabletop. She brought her face to Harry's ear, whispering sarcastically. "Harry."

Ron thought Harry'd die of revulsion right then and there. Sod Voldemort, he cringed inwardly. Parkinson's breath in the ear is enough to induce death on its own. "Just-- fine," Harry said, standing and gathering his bag. "Let's get on with it, then."

---

"So . . . " Ron said, as he wandered the moor with Blaise Zabini, enigmatic Slytherin extraordinaire. Blaise stopped then and Ron ran into his back. "Right then. Sorry about that. Wasn't paying attention." He watched as the other boy stooped down and pawed lightly at the ground.

"Biadh nan coinean," Blaise breathed dramatically, straightening. He held a sprig of something in his fingers.

"'Scuse me?" Ron asked, boggling mildly. "Is that Italian again?"

Blaise eyed Ron disdainfully as he packed the treasured fauna into the leather collection pouch tied around his waist. Turning, he slogged off through the thigh-high gorse without a response.

"Hey! That's Bird's Foot," Ron said with realisation, trailing sulkily behind the other boy, unmotivated and bored. "That's not on our list. Bird's Foot is poisonous! We're not allowed to collect it."

"It's really no concern of yours what I collect," Blaise responded, walking with sure, quick strides.

"Bloody well right it's my concern if it'll be getting me into trouble!" Ron paused to harvest a handful of Round-Leaved Sundew, which was on their list of specimens to collect. "This stuff's good for warts and corns," he mused, stuffing the Sundew into his own collection pouch. "Don't think I really fancy making corn and wart solution, though. What kind of a N.E.W.T. level project's that? Hey! Wait up!" He loped after Blaise, whose head was rapidly disappearing from his view into a waving sea of moorgrass. "Look, it's getting kind of deep out here, what with the gorse and all. Reckon we ought to head back?" he asked, after he'd caught up again.

"No," Blaise said shortly, and without warning the Slytherin dropped to all fours, peering intently at a microscopic green sprig sticking up from the hard earth; Ron slammed right into him, and it took exactly two seconds for him to flip head-over-heels onto his back, dragging Blaise sideways as he fell. He winced as his temple slammed against a pointy, small rock.

"Bloody hell!" he shouted, completely befuddled. "What the sod is the matter with you, Zabini? Ever thought about giving a bloke a bit of a warning before just dropping arse-up onto the ground?" Ron rolled onto his side, pushing up. His shoe dug into Blaise's gut as he lumbered to his feet.

"Perhaps it is you who needs to take better care," Blaise said, making no move to rise. "You're so occupied with running your mouth that you don't notice anything about you." He waved his hand around, gesturing. "These plants we're seeking are rare. You're not going to find them if you're not looking, and surely you can't look when you're so clearly busy irritating me with your insipid chatter. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a project to attend to." Blaise crawled away then, the wall of gorse swallowing him up.

"For crap's sake," Ron grumbled, rubbing at his temples. "Where're you going now?" he called after Blaise, grudgingly.

"Estoy buscando Bog Myrtle . . . "

"Is that bloody Italian again?" Ron called, unimpressed. "Dumb sod," he huffed, under his breath.

"I'm looking for Bog Myrtle, Weasley," Blaise called back, his voice growing fainter. "Perhaps you aren't familiar with it, as it's used only in the most advanced of potions and brews. My grandmother taught me how to look for it -- on hand and knee."

"I ruddy know what Bog Myrtle is, you pompous arse!" Ron shouted back, reluctantly dropping to all fours. Shaking his head, he inched forward into the gorse, heading in Blaise's last known direction.

"Good. Then be a sport and look."

Fuck you, you piece of shite. Pebbles dug into his palms as he crawled along. Bloody ignorant Slytherins. Think they're so fecking clever and . . . and -continental- or whatever . . . Bunch of inbred cretins, more like. Prolly don't even wash. Prolly -shed- instead . . . Ron relaxed comfortably into an amalgamation of his favourite insulting thoughts of Slytherin House, the sun warming his back nicely as he picked his way around. Prolly cockroach animagii, the lot of them. Should have Hermione disinfect my hand after the near-miss with Parkinson's arse, maybe some of that Murtlap wash she makes, yeah. Ron stopped. A vaguely familiar leaf was poking up from in between his fingers. Could it be?

He brought his face down close, inspecting. Dark green leaves. Check. Waxy. Check. He poked his finger into the plant's centre, probing. "Brilliant!" he said, as the distinctive small, orange catkins appeared. "Bog Myrtle! There's a good girl," he said to the plant, fishing out his rooting tool. Carefully he slid it into the damp earth and rucked gently. The Bog Myrtle gave with a tearing of roots and he drew it up, shaking the clumps of dirt away with a pop of his wrist. He put the sample away in his pouch and filled the hole where it had been growing with a swipe of his hand and a pat. "Bog Myrtle, come to Ronniekins." He whistled under his breath. "Where there's one of you, there's bound to be another. You girls like to hang about in clumps . . . kind of like regular girls . . . except Hermione -- Hermione doesn't like hanging about with a bunch of nattering birds . . . A-ha!" He spotted a second clump of Bog Myrtle and reached, but his hand closed instead over flesh, and as he lurched forward, the top of his head connected with a hard object, and Ron saw stars. "Shite," he lamented, reaching up. "That really hurt!" He lifted his eyes.

Pansy Parkinson stared back at him sullenly, her face cross and pink from exertion. "Get away from my Bog Myrtle, Weasel!" she hissed, rubbing her own head with her free hand. "Go find your own!"

"This is my Bog Myrtle, Pugginson!" he snapped, incredulous at her audacity. He'd found the bloody Bog Myrtle, and that was that. "Sod off and go find your own patch!"

"Is not yours! It's mine! My hand's there first!"

He looked at their hands. "Go ahead and take it, then. Reckon it's not really Bog Myrtle anyway," he said seriously.

"What?" she snapped, suspicious. "I know Bog Myrtle when I see it, thank you very much!"

"What's Bog Myrtle best know for, then?"

"Repelling insects, you prat!"

"Yet you're still touching it," he observed dryly, thinking he'd trapped her into that one rather nicely. "So it can't possibly be Bog Myrtle."

She rolled her eyes and curled her fingers tightly around the plant, determined. "Shut up, Weasel!" Fiercely, she jabbed him in the hand with her rooting tool.

"Hey!" He yanked his hand back reflexively. "Bloody hell!"

She pried the Bog Myrtle from the ground in a flash, and stuffed it into her collection pouch, dirt and all. "Brilliant," she said haughtily, a smug look of satisfaction on her face as she eyed his injured hand. "And I'll just be going now. Cheerio!" She crawled into the gorse.

Ron felt robbed. "Parkinson!" Without thinking, he set out after her. "That was my Bog Myrtle, you insufferable bitch! I saw it first, and . . . Hey, where's Harry?"

"I don't know where Harry is," she answered; he could see the bottoms of her shoes as she crawled along, just barely ahead of him.

"What'd'you mean you don't know where Harry is? You can't just lose him out here on the moor!"

"Watching Potter is your job, not mine."

"Harry can get on just fine by himself, thanks," Ron said protectively. "It's just, you know, the moor's vast, and anyone could get lost . . . " He swallowed, his throat dry from the heat, and he looked down at the brown ground as he tried to moisten his mouth. "Even Harry." He slammed into Pansy's arse. "Fucking shite!"

"Stop molesting my arse, you creepy sod, or I'm lodging a complaint with Snape!"

"I'm not molesting your arse, for the bloody love of Merlin's beard!" He looked around. They were in a clearing of sorts, approximately twenty feet by ten, and it was chock full of Bog Myrtle. "Whoa," he breathed, his eyes widening, Parkinson's bum forgotten. Eagerly he brought out his rooting tool.

"Make sure you don't leave any of the plants where their leaves can't touch," Pansy said, concentrating on her section of the patch.

"What?"

"I said--"

"I heard you."

"Then don't ask me to repeat," she retorted, going to work on the next Bog Myrtle. "Unless you're really such a moron that the dumb act isn't an act after all."

He paused for a moment, confused. "Huh?"

She rolled her eyes again. "God. Nevermind."

They worked silently, moving about the Bog Myrtle patch without speaking, uprooting the plants and putting them into their pouches. Ron soon fell into an easy rhythm and tuned her out. Bog Myrtle. Insect repellant. Particularly good for discouraging moths, he thought, pausing for a moment to roll up his sleeves. Hermione went on about Bog Myrtle in sixth year. Ron figured Hermione didn't need to know that he actually listened to her academic diatribes, but that was how he learnt about Bog Myrtle -- from Hermione's incessant revising. He smiled to himself slightly, mopping his brow with the back of his hand.

Harry was right, of course. Ron did fancy Hermione, and something fierce. He'd kissed her once during sixth year, right up against the warm stones of the Gyffindor fireplace, and she had kissed him back, but had then laid her hand on his chest. "I can't," she had said, her eyes genuinely apologetic. "I've got to focus on my studies, Ron. It's different for me than it is for you. I've not got a family of wizards and witches to fall back on when I leave here. What I get after Hogwarts I'll have to get on my own, through hard work." She'd reached up and touched his cheek then, and she had held his gaze steadily. "But, when we're done here . . . . " And she had tipped her head up and she'd kissed him again, until he was breathing hard and his trousers were suddenly too tight. All right, he'd said, nodding solemnly when she had finally ducked her head down, flustered. All right. He'd handed Hermione his heart that day, and thereforth he saw them in his mind as a gift: a shimmering, perfectly square box the colour of Fawkes, tied shut with a brilliant golden ribbon sliced straight from the sun. A present, placed still and enticing upon some window's sill, somewhere in Gryffindor Tower. A gift to one day be unwrapped only by them both, together.

" . . . cannot block . . . "

He was startled from his reverie. "What?"

"I didn't say anything." Pansy's face was the vision of abject concentration as she worked efficiently amongst the Bog Myrtle.

"Oh. Right, then." He went back to work.

" . . . in a bin . . . "

He looked up sharply, considering her once again. Hearing he had stopped working on the plants, she turned her head to look at him. "What?" she asked sharply, blinking at him. "Quit ogling me."

"Quit muttering."

She gave him a withering look. "I'm not muttering." She looked down again, whistling a short bar from a tune that was vaguely familiar to Ron, but one which he found he couldn't quite place. Shaking his head, he busied himself again.

" . . . is our King . . . "

Ron threw down his rooting tool, thoroughly disgusted. "Oh, put a cork in it, Parkinson!" he growled, his ears warming angrily, hating Pansy with every fibre of his being. It was a stupid song with stupid lyrics, and he knew this logically -- everyone knew this. So it was no wonder he'd never shared with anyone that Weasley Is Our King had quite honestly bothered him quite a lot. It was one thing to endure the song at every Quidditch match fifth year from a distance; it was entirely another to be face-to-face with, he supposed, one of the authors of the musical bane of his existence. It thoroughly hacked him off that she made him feel . . . well, like this. Even after two years. "Drop dead."

She snorted lightly, smirking. "Never that." Ron opened his mouth to retort, but she was looking intently downward. "What's that?"

"What's what?" he asked suspiciously, wondering if she was trying to have him on.

"That," she said, pointing at him, crinkling her nose.

Ron looked down, wondering what the sod she was referring to. Was his fly down? "Oh," he said, after a moment. "Nothing."

"Where'd you get scars like that from?" she enquired further, craning her neck for a better view. Her face had softened; she was genuinely curious.

Bloody brilliant, he thought. That's all I need -- the Slytherins mocking me for something else. "S'none of your business," he replied coolly, rolling his sleeves down over the faint pink scars from the Brain Room fifth year that wrapped their way up his forearms.

"You should do something about those scars," she said, her usual cattiness returning. "Everyone'll think you're just Potter's tag-a-long." She put her hands to her face in mock realisation. "Oh, wait . . ."

"Fuck off already," Ron seethed, despite himself, her words cutting into him although he hardly gave two shites what someone like Pansy Parkinson thought of his and Harry's relationship. "At least my best mate wasn't hatched!"

"You sure about that?" she asked, not missing a beat as she closed her collection pouch and slipped her rooting tool into its holder on the outside of the flap. "He speaks Parseltongue like he was bloody well hatched! Scars are so Halloween 1981, Weasel. Everyone knows that."

"There's nothing wrong with scars," he said, rising up on his knees indignantly. "Besides, Madam Pomfrey's slathered me up a tonne of times with Dr. Ubbly's Oblivious Unction. They're not going to get any better. Maybe just fade with time, she said." Internally he castigated himself for the unexpected compulsion to explain himself to her.

"Madam Pomfrey's still using Dr. Ubbly's?" she sniffed, nonplussed. "No wonder your arms look like freckled zebra hocks."

"Madam Pomfrey knows what she's doing, I reckon," Ron said defensively. "And excuse me, but zebra hocks?"

"Madam Pomfrey's stuck in the last century, that's what. She probably hasn't updated her stocks since before our parents were at Hogwarts." Pansy turned and marched back into the gorse, parting it with a sweep of her arm.

"Where're you going?"

"Classtime's almost over. I'm going back."

Ron hesitated, but then followed her with a resigned sigh, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he skulked along. Hell if he knew where they were. Stupid moor, he thought, his full pouch bumping gently against his thigh as he walked.

---

He sat silently at his assigned Herbology table thirty minutes later, eyeing Parkinson and Zabini surreptitiously from behind his text. He witnessed their exchange with glowering indignance. "See that, Harry?" he asked, leaning over to whisper. "Zabini's giving something to Parkinson. On the moor just now? He was collecting Bird's Foot, yeah?"

"Bird's Foot?" Harry furrowed his brow, puzzled. "But Bird's Foot is for making poisons and whatnot."

"Bird's Foot is like lye," Hermione interjected, huddling as well. "Traditionally, lye was home-made, from various and sundry caustic ingredients."

Harry and Ron exchanged a look. "Yeah?" Harry asked patiently.

"Yes," she continued loftily. "People have made their own lye for aeons. Common bases included fowl droppings, human urine, wood ash, and powdered limestone mixed down with rainwater to a desired strength."

Ron pulled a face. "Piss? Yuck."

"Hygienically, urine is much cleaner than saliva, you know. It's actually a perfectly sterile substance!"

"I don't want to talk about urine with you, Hermione," he said, as Harry laughed. "You think the Bird's Foot has something to do with lye, then?" Ron shrugged questioningly. "What's it good for anyway?"

"Well, lye is a cleaning agent -- a caustic cleaning agent, of course. It's used to bleach, to soften and scour, and to dissolve unwanted bits of adhering materials. It's a lethal substance when swallowed."

"You don't suppose Parkinson and Zabini are planning to poison someone?" Ron was troubled by the Slytherins' strange behaviour.

"Oh, honestly, Ronald," Hermione said, clucking. "Parkinson's not clever enough to poison herself, much less anyone else."

"But what about Zabini?" Ron leaned in conspiratorially. "He's Italian, you know."

"Italians are prone to poisoning their classmates?"

"Dunno!" Ron said, spreading his hands. "Maybe . . . ."

"Now I know he's a Slytherin, but I expect that doesn't necessarily mean he's evil--"

"Are you mental?" he interjected, peering closely at her. "'Course it does!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I'm not talking about the Slytherins any further with you," she said, all business. "Granted, they may well be less than--" She searched for the right term. "--pleasant, but logically speaking that hardly means they're out to poison the school at large. Really, Ron!"

They filed out of Greenhouse Eleven. "Have you forgotten fifth year, Hermione?" Ron hissed into her ear, bumping against her back as the crowd pressed forward; he took the opportunity to breathe in her scent. "That sodding squad of Umbridge's?"

She paused, causing a stack-up in the queue behind them, and turned to regard him seriously. "I've forgotten nothing." His heart gave a jolt as her smooth, cool fingers closed around his wrist, just for a moment, and his face warmed.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly, willing away the heat. "Right, then."

"Quite," she said, turning again.

---

A fortnight and some change later, it was abundantly clear the Herbology partnerships weren't working out at all, and Ron was nearly beside himself, full up to the brim with Blaise Zabini's goddamned Slytherin enigmaticism.

"Could you just ruddy speak English?" he groused, gesticulating wildly as he slogged along behind Blaise through the pouring Scottish rain; they were skirting their way around the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest. "You know -- English. Speekey da Englishey?" Blaise stopped abruptly and Ron slammed into his back. "Gods, what is with you?" Ron lamented, closing his eyes in an attempt to convince himself this whole ruddy scene was all a horrible misunderstanding, and that any second now Sprout would spring from the bushes and partner him up with Hermione, and banish Blaise Zabini to a far off closet filled with Mandrakes screaming lethally in Italian. "Is it so hard to give a signal before you up and stop on a knut?"

They inched forward slowly. The rain pelted down on them, smattering heavily against their skulls, and Ron figured his warming charm was likely on its way out. They poked at the darkened flora with long sticks, parting leaves and branches here and there, and directing the thin light from their wandtips into the dark underbrush.

"Cessez d'être mélodramatique, svp," Blaise hissed, holding his hand out for Ron to halt.

"SVP?" Ron stepped backward, regaining his personal space. "What the sod's that mean? You may think I'm shite at anagrams or whatnot, Zabini, but you lot aren't the only ones skilled in translation. Check this: Slytherin Viper Pit. Ha!" He crossed his arms over his chest triumphantly.

Blaise threw a withering glance over his shoulder. "Svp," he said in a clipped tone. "Acronym, not anagram. Sil vous plait, Weasley. It means 'please'."

"Stuff it." Ron pushed past Blaise, miserable from the cold. "Which one do you want to look for, then? 'Cos I'm definitely not looking for both."

Blaise stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Reina de Noche," he said finally, striding forward confidently. "Het bloeien van de nacht Cereus."

Ron gave up attempting to understand Blaise's dodgy Italian entirely. The bloke's beyond mental. "Yeah, fine. Whatever."

The rain was falling in sheets by now, and he couldn't remember a time where the clouds had opened up so severely; he'd be damned, though, if he was going to suggest going inside as long as that ponce Blaise Zabini wasn't complaining. As they moved closer toward the Quidditch pitch, still sticking to the edge of the forest, the grass petered out and they were soon mucking through a thick swath of sticky mud, which made repulsive slurping sounds as they navigated its sucking depths. His arm outstretched, wand shaking from the cold, Ron struggled forward, and walked right out of his trainer. He turned with a jolt and aimed his wand downward, just in time to see his shoe fill with mud and disappear.

"Oi!" He knelt quickly, sliding sideways, and put his hand out reflexively to catch himself; instantly, he was up to his mid-forearm in the muck. He pulled back, but then a steely feeling of resolve flooded through him and he thrust his hand back into the mud, groping blindly in the area his trainer had disappeared into. He pulled it free with a sucking pop, dangling it from his finger. "Bugger." He schlepped thickly toward the grass.

He found refuge under the canopy, daring to step inside the forest's perimeter, and he was relieved to find the rainfall was lessened significantly there. Streams of water dripped from the leaves, but he was at least able to open his eyes fully. He could barely feel his fingertips for the cold, and his teeth were beginning to chatter uncontrollably. With a flick of his wand he banished the mud from his trainer and dropped it to the forest floor and shoved his foot inside, wiggling his heel until it wedged reluctantly into the sodden leather.

He made to head out from the forest, but paused mid-step, cocking his head. Retracing his steps, he eased back into the forest's undergrowth, the faint echo of voices coaxing his innate curiosity. He gingerly pushed into the bramble and moved aside several low branches with a careful sweep of his hand as he stepped through the outer periphery of the trees. He was relieved when the voices grew louder immediately, or, he realised, pausing again, voice singular, rather.

A lone female voice was, well, gibbering it seemed, just ahead. Ron inched his way around a patch of wild scrub oak, and he hid behind the thick trunk of a towering ash tree, its wet bark scratching damply into the palms of his hands as he peered around the tree's side.

He spotted the bluish light of two wands floating in the small clearing just ahead; Ron recognised the glow of Lumos when he saw it, so he wasn't alarmed per se. The rain precluded an immediate identification of the two dark figures moving slowly through the clearing. He stepped forward, keening for a better look, and he felt a small, fallen branch strain under his foot; it snapped, echoing unbelievably -- or so it seemed to Ron -- and he froze, ducking his head down just in time as one of the figure jerked their wand in his direction, the blue light floating toward him.

"Who's there?" a flat voice called out loudly, confident and wholly unafraid -- Ron could hear it in her tone. Whoever it was, she was wasn't intimidated by the forest, even under the darkness of night, and the dumping, pouring rain. He remained still until the dark passed back over him, cloaking him nicely, as the girl drew her wand around slowly, searching the clearing. Safely under the cover of darkness again, he melted back into the ash, pressing himself against its trunk.

"Quit being such a useless slug," he heard her say, obviously redirecting her attention to her partner. "There's nobody out here who's impressed with you." He could hear the disdain dripping from her words. "I'm certainly not, that's for sure."

"I don't care," the other figure replied, and Ron pushed away from the ash again, curiously drawn toward his unknown classmates. He was positive they were also part of the Herbology lab. The boy continued. "I'm really not interested in your approval. Let's just find the Night Blooming Cereus and get the hell out of here."

Ron took great pause, confused. He felt as if he were having a moment of déjà vu -- foggy, distant familiarity washed through him.

"There's really nothing special about you at all," the girl continued, and Ron suddenly disliked her immensely, while at the same time a kernel of familiar foreboding puffed gently in his mind.

"I agree. Look," the boy spoke wearily, "we shouldn't even be in here. There's Cereus over by the--"

"God, shut up already," she hissed, cutting him off. "The Cereus by the lake -- and I'm sure that's what you were going to suggest, right? The lake?"

"There's nothing wrong with the Cereus by the lake--"

"The Cereus by the lake is sub-par," she said. "Cereus that sees the light of day may well look the same, but it's the night-shaded kind -- the purely night-shaded -- that's superiour." A great rustling sound could be heard, and Ron discerned the two were clearing underbrush in search of the elusive night-shaded Cereus.

"Hermione's never mentioned anything about Cereus that sees the light of day is sub-par, and if anyone'd know it'd be her, not you."

Of course. Ron knew then and there who the two were, and he could have kicked himself for not recognising Harry before; immediately he honed in on Harry's distress, thoroughly familiar with his best mate, and he was able to tell he was out of sorts.

He further realised that Pansy Parkinson was indeed the root of all evil. That -bitch-, he thought, every protective fibre of his being rankling within him in protest. He eased around the tree again, squinting into the rain.

Harry stood toward the edge of the roughly circular clearing, his arms crossed over his chest, the tip of his wand resting against the hollow of his throat. The blue Lumos cast its glow upward over his features, shadowing his face eerily, and Ron fully recognised Harry's exhaustion. He was tired and spent obviously -- as well as the rain, they'd had a two hour Quidditch practise that afternoon. Harry, as captain, had driven the team beyond their endurance, citing the ongoing competition with Slytherin as his reason for over-practising, until Ron, understanding that the pitch was the only place Harry felt normal, had slung his broom alongside Harry's, and had promised he'd stay with him for as long as he needed, but the rest of the team was dead tired and needed to stop. Harry'd stared past him, vaguely considering Ron's offer. "Yeah . . . yeah. All right." Ron was positive he'd hate Quidditch this year; each practise, each game, brought the closure of their school years closer, and neither boy was particularly comfortable with the notion just yet.

It had been only six weeks since Ron and Harry had been at the Burrow, and the memory of their last days of the summer hols floated enticingly through Ron's mind, warm and satisfying, and he thought of 29 August.

---

Harry'd come to visit, Dumbledore having relented for a four-day weekend, and they'd flown that day too, sharing a hot, serious scrimmage in which neither spoke for over an hour, but had rather just played and looped and Feinted, sure and focused. They'd finally swooped from the sky, rolling from their brooms into one of the many fields of waving wheat surrounding the Burrow. They'd plucked the thin shoots of wheat, easing the hollow shafts between their teeth and chewing lightly, and had rested hot and flushed under the blue summer sky, fingers laced behind their heads.

Harry's elbow bumped lightly against Ron's as he shifted. "Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm to kill Voldemort."

"What?" Ron turned, shading his eyes with his hand. The wheat fell from his lips.

"I'm to kill Voldemort," Harry repeated, staring fixedly up at the sky.

"What?" Ron repeated dumbly, unsure he was hearing Harry correctly.

Harry had fallen silent and Ron's guts had frozen inside him, despite the high afternoon sun.

He'd laid awake that night feeling most unlike himself, and for the first time in his life he cursed the ruddy Ghoul in the attic for being too damn quiet -- he needed everyday familiarity desperately at that moment.

He supposed part of him had always known, deep down in his heart, but Ron had never been the type to actively contemplate the unspoken, the intangible, the completely unimaginable. That Harry would die was suddenly right there, spoken and voiced, and since Harry'd spilled the truth, Ron had fought against the rising surge of panic building in him. He not figured out exactly why Harry's admission had translated in his own mind to Harry's imminent death. For the first time in his life Ron found himself wholly scared, and had been overcome by a paralysing sense of fear so very un-Gryffindorish, that he repeatedly questioned whether he was having an out-of-body experience, so keenly did he want to divorce himself from the reality of what Harry was telling him.

The next day Harry hadn't acted any differently and Ron had thought his guts would eat themselves alive. Finally, he cornered Harry in the front room.

"You've got to tell me," he'd said, staring down seriously at Harry.

"I did. Yesterday."

"You know what I mean," Ron pressed, dropping his voice confidentially. "Harry, I-- Harry, I don't understand. You've got to help me understand, yeah?" He knew it wasn't a matter of Harry not trusting him, but rather it was something else, something inside of Harry himself, and he didn't know how to purvey in words to Harry that there was nothing he could tell him that would eradicate their friendship. There was nothing Harry could possibly do that would ever breach the bond between them, and it was this knowledge -- that the nature of Harry's burden was obviously so overwhelming -- that drove Ron's fear for Harry's life itself. He tried again. "Harry? Just once, all right? Just tell me once, and I promise I'll never ask again. Nothing will change."

Harry had stared up at him. "Everything will change," he said plainly. "But . . . I want to tell you. I should."

Ron had sighed deeply then, and dropped his hand to his sides. "C'mon," he said finally, stepping around Harry, "let's go outside."

---

He'd skipped the Sorting ceremony that year, the first time he'd ever done so, which was really rather bad form as he was a Prefect. Hermione'd been terribly cross with him naturally, but Ron had been compelled to camp out in front of Dumbledore's office until all the first-of-the-year festivities had been completed. Dumbledore had seemed a bit surprised when he'd come across him.

"Sir? Could I have a word?"

"Of course," Dumbledore had said mildly, sweeping by him in a swirling mass of dressrobes. "Come in."

Ron had followed Dumbledore into his office, and, too preoccupied to admire all the wonderful gadgets or worry about the portraits eavesdropping, he'd blurted out his need before the headmaster had even had a chance to seat himself. "I need a pensieve." His neck warmed with embarrassment as he realised how demanding he sounded. "I mean, I need to store a memory, and I haven't got a pensieve. So I was wondering if I could borrow yours?" Dumbledore had cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly, steepling his fingers under his chin. Ron had clarified further. "I mean, not that I would take your pensieve or whatever, 'cos it's your pensieve of course and it'd be rude to nick your pensieve -- not that I'd steal--" It hadn't gone very smoothly at all. "I just need to store a memory s'all," he'd finished lamely, meeting Dumbledore's eyes.

"Will you share with me what memory is troubling you so?" Dumbledore had asked patiently.

Ron hadn't known if he should say, yet had ultimately decided since Dumbledore obviously knew himself that there wouldn't be any betrayal of confidence per se. "Harry's told me about the prophecy," he'd explained.

"Ah." Dumbledore considered him from over the top of his glasses. "I see. Yes, well, I do see your burden." He'd stood then and had brought his pensieve from the top of a cabinet to the left rear of his desk, and had placed it on the desktop, beckoning for Ron to budge closer. He lifted his wand to Ron's temple. "Do you have it in mind?"

"You mean-- yeah?" That had been easy, he'd thought.

"Very good." Dumbledore had steadied his wand then, a serious look falling over his face. "How do you want to preserve this memory? As a duplicated record of your conversation, or do you wish for it to be gone from your mind altogether?"

"Um." He'd had to think about it. "It'd be wrong of me to just . . . dunno, just would be wrong to leave Harry to carry it all himself, after he went to the trouble of telling me, yeah?" Ron then folded his arms determinedly across his chest. "It's as much my burden as Harry's now."

Dumbledore had lifted an eyebrow at him. "Oh?" he'd asked mildly. "How so?"

"'Cos." Ron hadn't quite known how to put it into words. "Just 'cos." He'd shrugged. "It just is."

Dumbledore had looked at him closely then, and if Ron hadn't known better, he would have sworn he'd seen something like admiration there, for just a fleeting moment. He'd squirmed uncomfortably. "Very well," Dumbledore had continued. "Have your thought at the ready."

"Got it."

"Imago." Dumbledore had drawn the silver wisp of memory away from Ron's temple without any sensation, and had lowered it into his pensieve.

"That's it?"

"Not very complicated, is it Ron?"

Ron had looked from the swirling liquid of the pensieve to Dumbledore. "Guess not."

"Will that be all?"

"Er, yeah. Guess so."

"One thing," Dumbledore had said as Ron had moved toward his office door. "Has Harry informed Miss Granger of the prophecy?"

Ron brows had furrowed. "Dunno. Maybe?"

"Just remember it is Harry's story to tell, Ron."

"Yes sir. I wouldn't-- I'd not tell anyone."

"I trust that you will look after Harry's interests, as you always have," Dumbledore had finished seriously. "I daresay I need not remind you of the stressors he will be facing this year. Once he leaves Hogwarts, he is an adult in the eyes of our world. Over the next ten months, Voldemort will undoubtedly be more terrible than we have ever before witnessed, in his quest to end Harry's life and sanctify his own." The headmaster had sighed then, a shadow of mixed regret and weariness crossing his features. "This year will be the worst Harry will ever know. I believe he can survive and that he will be victorious, but it shall not be an easy accomplishment."

Ron had stared, boggling inwardly at the straightforwardness of Dumbledore's words. "Right." He'd pulled himself taller then, standing at attention for Dumbledore. "I'll look after Harry."

"As you always have," Dumbledore had repeated, turning from Ron to face the roaring fire in his office's hearth, hands clasped behind his back, and Ron had known then that their conversation had been completed.

---

And now, here, in the pouring October rain, his own words echoed in his head: I'll look after Harry . . .

Pansy Parkinson was on her hands and knees, and her head and wand were completely engulfed by whatever bush she was rummaging under for Cereus, and stealthily he made his way behind her toward Harry. Halfway there, he muttered Lumos, and had immediately held the tip of his wand up toward his face, so that Harry would recognise him straight away. He put his finger up to his lips as he approached, as soon as Harry's eyes shifted toward the light from his wand. He eased up beside him.

He spoke in a whisper. "That Zabini's mad, I'm telling you, Harry! Completely nutters. Look, you get on better with him than old Slythercow over there," he jerked his head toward Pansy's backside. "So, go on. Go with Zabini. I--" Ron took a deep breath. "I'll partner up with Parkinson." He attempted a smile as Harry considered him silently. "All right?"

"You don't have to do that," Harry answered finally, the rain fogging his glasses.

"Yeah, I know that, but . . . " Ron struggled to find the right approach. "Look, Harry, I'm not helping you skate. It's just that, well, I can't make arses or tails of Zabini, but the two times you ended up with him, you two found your plants. And, well, I found that Bog Myrtle with Parkinson right fast."

"So this is really about you," Harry said bemusedly, removing his glasses.

"No!" Ron said, much too forcefully. "No." He lifted his wand without thinking. "Impervius." Harry's glasses de-fogged immediately. A thought struck him. "Well, perhaps it's a bit about me, yeah. But we can both benefit . . . c'mon, Harry! It's no big deal. You shouldn't have to put up with Parkinson's shite just for a ruddy Herbology mark that you'll never have use for anyway. Just . . . just go on. Really. It's okay."

"Hermione's never said anything about Cereus that sees the light of day being inferior," Harry said, turning away slightly. "She'd of told us that if it were true."

"Yeah," Ron said, unsure what Harry's point was.

"I think that Cereus does better in the light," he continued, after a moment. "If you keep Cereus in the dark only, then it's bound to mutate. It won't thrive."

Ron sensed the shift in Harry's demeanour, and within a second he realised that Harry was speaking of Sirius, not Cereus, and the sound of the rain pouring against the forest canopy, dripping from its leaves, and hitting the leaves and logs on the forest floor was so very isolating and baleful that Ron felt as if some sort of primal scream was suddenly clawing at his throat.

"Harry, you--"

"We shouldn't keep things from the light that want to be there," Harry said, his voice odd. "If they want to be there, they should be. They shouldn't be punished for wanting to be there."

The rain coursed down.

To the side of them, Pansy shifted in the bushes. "Potter!" she barked, her knees making squishing sounds against the spongy leaf-covered mud. "Get over here, and bring me my rucksack!"

Harry didn't move, and Ron touched the tip of his wand to Harry's elbow. "Harry?" He gathered as much resolve as he could muster. "Seriously. Go on. Go on with Zabini. He doesn't say anything really." Finally Harry trained his gaze on Ron, and Ron gestured toward the edge of the clearing with a quick jerk of his head. "Just . . . it's okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ron let his wand down. "'Sides, you'll be all right. It's--" He faltered, not wanting Harry feeling like he was being patronised. Pushing his sopping hair from his eyes, he continued. "It's just this sodding rain, mate. That's all. Makes things seem, you know, all fucked up."

"Yeah." Harry nodded faintly. "'Spect so." He pushed away from the tree's trunk, and met Ron's eyes briefly as he set out for the short trek through the forest, back to the Quidditch pitch, and then disappeared into the dark. Ron resisted the urge to follow him, quashing the vague sense of irrational panic he often felt these days on Harry's behalf.

"Where. Is. My. Rucksack?"

Clearly Ron was in prime control of himself that night, for he managed to keep from kicking Pansy Parkinson in the conk as her shrill voice cut through the beating fall of the rain. Looking around, he spotted her rucksack at the foot of another tree; stooping, he grabbed it up and crossed over to her with several sure steps. "You mean this?" She looked up at him with a start, still on hands and knees, and Ron dropped her heavy bag straight into the magnificent puddle conveniently pooled in front of her; the mud washed over her head and face like a brown wave, and splattered down her back and sides. Crossing his arms, he leaned back triumphantly, smirking as her lips formed into a perfectly round 'O' of rage, and he was filled with a fierce satisfaction as he noted the mud spatter into mouth. "So sorry," he quipped brightly.

"Oooo!" Pansy wiped at her eyes, clearing away the muck that had splashed there; she spit onto the ground, a muddy string of saliva catching on her lip for a moment. "Fuck you, Weasel! Pick up my bag!"

He turned his back on her. "Pick up your own ruddy bag, mardy bum."