Adjudication

Winter Kills

Ron was busy picking at his cuticle when the door to the holding room gave a lurch; still working at the sliver of loose skin on his thumb, he flicked his eyes upward.

It bothered him to see a prisoner brought in. There was always that moment where he and they would regard one another, a tiny scintilla of time where their respective roles were irrelevant and only their basic humanity existed, and Ron was certain he could save someone if only they'd just let him. It was an egrandised notion, he realised, but one that regularly reared its head in his chosen profession.

Pansy Parkinson stumbled as the guards led her into the small room, knocking the side of her thigh against the sharp edge of the granite bench; she didn't wince, although Ron knew it must have hurt. She'll have a bruise, he thought, his thumb stilling over the bit of cuticle he'd been working at. Pansy lifted her head then, catching sight of him, and froze.

"Sit." A burly guard directed her, prodding her with his wand. "Sit," he repeated impatiently, clapping a beefy hand down onto her thin shoulder.

"S'all right," Ron said, standing. He drew himself up to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest, feet spread slightly. He made a rather imposing picture in his Auror uniform. "Really. S'all right."

The guard pressed down on her shoulder anyway; Pansy didn't budge. "Sit down. Now." He turned to Ron. "It's policy."

Ron strode forward, right toward her, and her aura engulfed him straight away, black and hopeless and writhing; he pushed through it determinedly. "I said it's all right," he reiterated, shooting the guards a hard look, putting his hand out. "Stop." The guards hesitated, not wanting to breach protocol, but it was always sticky for them when Ministry officials made to circumvent the rules. Ron adopted his best professional demeanour, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "She's half my size. She's no weapons, and no magic. She's had the potion, correct?" The guards nodded, glancing sideways at their prisoner; Pansy stared past them, her expression vacant. Ron dutifully ignored her, continuing to hold the guards' attention. "Well, then? I'm to interview this prisoner in a matter of the highest priority." Finally stealing a glance at Pansy, he motioned for the guards to step aside with him; together they huddled by the door. He spoke earnestly. "Look mates, do a bloke a favour, yeah? I'm working under Moody, and he's expecting a thorough report. Look, I know this bint from school." Ron pulled his most professional beseeching look, deliberately attempting to project a sense of comraderie between the three of them. "I know her. She won't tell me jack shite if she's shackled and hogtied." He tilted his head, his words barely discernable. "Come on. This is important."

The guards considered him silently until finally one spoke. "We've trained under Moody before," he admitted grudgingly.

Ron broke into a broad grin. He cuffed the guard good-naturedly on the arm. "Then you understand. Brilliant!" He gestured toward Pansy with a quick nod. "Piece of cake, that one." One of the guards took pause at this, suspicion creeping across his features at Ron's pronouncement. He covered his arse smoothly. "For a trained professional, of course -- like yourselves." He gestured between them. "Or me. Us." He let out a silent breath of relief as the guards finally moved to unshackle Pansy, and he turned, contemplating the tabletop as their wands swished behind him, the soft chinking sounds of the receding restraints sounding lightly around him like some kind of odd, inauspicious windchime.

"We'll be outside." And with that the door slid closed with a echoing clang. Ron turned to her.

She looked a fright. Her dark hair hung lank and stringy, and her shoulders drooped. Her shackles had been removed, yes, but her stance remained stilted and awkward -- she held her wrists at her waist, as if the restraints were still fully in place. Her skin was ghostly pale as always, and she didn't have to lift her head for him to see the shadowy circles smudging downward toward her cheeks. She stood perfectly still.

Silently he stepped over to her, looking down upon her. His finger brushed inadvertently against her hand, and her scent drifted upward. "Parkinson," he said, after a moment. She didn't move. He stepped closer, trying out a more authoritative tone. "Parkinson."

She tipped forward then, so imperceptibly that he didn't realise she was even moving until she had burrowed her face into the soft black wool front of his Aurors robes, her hands still frozen unnaturally against her belly; he let his arms drop to his sides, taken aback, for her shoulders were shaking silently, and then an awful, unnatural sound swelled through the room, and it took Ron several moments to fully realise that it was she who was making the noise. She wept bitterly against him, and the most profound sense of despair he'd ever experienced spread through him in a silent, icy wave. Like a bow drawn over a taut violin string, her grief unspooled into the room in a raw, unfettered aria, howling forth on the tail of a single bleak note: Pain.

"Draco . . . Draco . . . Oh god, Draco . . . "

Ron was paralysed; God knew he didn't know even remotely how to respond to this situation -- it hadn't been covered in his Auror training at all. Finally, though, a vague sense of reluctant familiarity rolled through him. Defaulting to his usual method of soothing hysterical females, he gingerly lifted his hand and patted Pansy awkwardly on her back, sighing heavily, words from long ago exploding inside his head as he was engulfed by the strangeness of the moment. Libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni, et de profundo lacu. Libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum . . . Deliver the souls of all who have died in faith from the pains of Hell and from the deep pit. Deliver them to the lion's mouth, lest the jaws of the serpent swallow them, and they fall into everlasting darkness . . . . "Crap," he said, rendered helpless. "Parkinson . . . Pansy . . . " He couldn't think of anything else to say. Dropping his hand away from her back, he let her snot up the front of his uniform.

green
in your love
on bright days
you grew sun blind
you thought me unkind
to remind you
how winter kills

tear at me searching for weak seams
pain in your eyes makes me cruel
makes me spiteful
tears are delightful
welcome your nightfall
how winter kills
i'll tear at you searching for weak seams
how winter kills

---

He awoke to the sound of crinkling paper, unsure of how long he'd drifted off. "What're you doing?" he mumbled, pushing up a bit, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

"I'm hungry," she said simply, folding a stick of his taffy into her mouth.

"Don't eat all the food," he said indignantly.

"I'm not." She gave him a withering look. "This is the first one I've had!"

"Be surprised if that's true."

"Well it is!" She moved her head up just as he looked down, and the tip of her nose grazed over his chin. "Sorry," she said, not sounding very sorry at all.

Ron could smell the taffy on her breath and the muscles in his jaw seized painfully for a moment as a flood of saliva filled his mouth. "Gimme a piece too." She pushed a wrapped taffy into his hand, which had fallen loose from her skirt. He held it up to her face. "Bite down," he instructed, brushing the bit of wrapper at the end of the taffy against her lip, and he felt her comply through the darkness; taking it in her teeth, she clamped down, and Ron tugged. The taffy wrapper spun open, and he grabbed the sweet and popped it into his mouth. Pansy blew the wrapper from her mouth and laid her head back down; he could feel her temple pushing rhythmically against his chest as she chewed.

"Butterbeer?" she enquired, after she'd swallowed the taffy.

He supposed it was as good a time as any; he pulled his wand. "Lumos! All right. It's in my-- Oi! Get away!" She was tugging at the bottle of butterbeer before he'd even finished his sentence; he'd tucked it down the right front of his pants. Pansy clearly had no shame, for before he knew what was what, she'd pulled the bottle free from his trousers. Deftly she twisted it open and tipped it to her lips, drinking long and deep. "Hog!" Ron accused, grabbing it away from her after she'd drained half the bottle. Defiantly he slugged the rest, and belched loudly into her face.

"Gross!" Her nose crinkled and she covered it with her hand. "I think your lips actually vibrated from the force!"

"Dunno what you're talking about." He belched again and smirked at her unapologetically. "That was a right good one!"

"You're disgusting!"

He forced one last burp at her. "Ain't it grand, Parkinson?"

She rolled her eyes at him, but Ron could have sworn he caught the corner of her mouth lifting again. "Roses are red, violets are purple," she recited spontaneously. "Drink too much butterbeer, you're liable to burple!"

He looked down at her. "Did you just make . . . a joke?"

"Perhaps," she said, her face as serious as ever. "Did you find what I said to be funny, hmm?"

"Lame's more like it," he scoffed, trying not to smile.

"Roses are red, daisies are yelly; Grandfather's teeth are lost in the Jelly!"

A snort of laughter escaped him, and a . . . bloody hell, if it wasn't an outright triumphant sense that filled him when one corner of her mouth lifted into a grin, and he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a row of perfectly normal teeth. "Got anything else, then, or is that your full show?"

She sobered again, and spoke carefully. "Your parents lobbied fiercely for passage of the wizarding law which allows a couple to legally remain brother and sister even after the marriage, didn't they, Weasley?"

He stared at her disbelieving, the amused feeling deflating at once. "Oh, that's typical, Parkin--" A thought occurred to him, and he stopped mid-sentence, thinking. He looked at her slyly. "Yeah? Well . . . Well, your family tree has no forks," he said challengingly, and she broke into a full smile.

"Ha!" she said. "Figured you wouldn't get it, what with you being so daft and all." She unwrapped another taffy and bit it in half. "By the way, Professor Vector says you're an Arithmancy natural, owing to your thirteen fingers!"

Chop-downs! Ron was completely in his element. "Give another taffy here," he demanded, mentally surfing through his chop-down catalogue. "Your dining room centrepiece is a signed, original work by a famous wizarding taxidermist." He paused to let her pop the other half of her taffy into his mouth, without a second thought. He lifted an eyebrow at her, chewing thoughtfully. "Ten points to bloody fucking Slytherin if the centrepiece is a Gryffindor."

Pansy laughed; her full smile was lopsided, Ron noticed, as if she didn't get enough practise to make it work properly. She touched her fingertips to the top of his hand. "You've got fourteen broomsticks in your front yard perched on stone blocks, none of which work."

"Oh, bite me." He laughed, grinning a bit. "Your mother's fur cloak is home-made from Muggle roadkill." He added a bit more. "It's probably infested with Nargles, too!"

"Well, you've made change from the charity collection tins at the shoppes in Diagon Alley," she shot back.

"Your idea of a medical kit is a roll of Spellotape and a bottle of firewhiskey, you daft bird!"

"Don't you mean 'bint'?" she asked slyly.

"Yeah, yeah. Bint, bird, same thing."

"It's not the same thing!" she said, pushing at him lightly. "Does this mean I've won you over?"

"No!" he objected, a bit horrified at the prospect. He sobered; she was gazing at him quite strangely. "Hell no. . . . "

"I'm only joking," she said, in a way that made Ron wonder if she were being truthful. He held her gaze, his mouth suddenly dry, the smell of taffy wafting between them.

"I'd better--" He gestured weakly, his thumb trailing against the dense material of the underside of his cloak. "I should--"

"Go ahead," she said, slowly lifting herself away from him.

"Here's your boot," Ron said, upon returning from outside. "Luck, really. I just did an Accio." He scratched at the back of his neck, the wool of his scarf itching him; his cheeks were ruddy from the cold and he had ice crystals stuck in his eyebrows. "I'm putting it over-- Oh." He stopped short, seeing what she had done.

Pansy had transfigured his rucksack into a pallet of sorts and was laying on her stomach, resting her head on her arms, one leg bent casually at the knee. "If they were coming sooner than later, they'd've been here by now," she said easily, her leg swaying slightly in a rhythmic way. "So I made house a bit."

"Right," he said, her boot in one hand, his wand in the other. He considered the pallet warily. It was fairly small. He thumbed toward the other part of the cave. "I'll just go over--"

"Don't be an idiot," she interrupted, putting her hand possessively over Methuselah. "I'm keeping the cloak. Right here. That means if you want to stay warm too, you'll have to share."

"That's my cloak!"

"Bully for you, Weasley," she said triumphantly. "Take it, or leave it."

He tossed her boot aside and flopped down next to her, rolling onto his back and lacing his fingers behind his head; he stared upward. "Nox," he said, and the darkness fell. "Fix the cloak, then." She did.

They lay there next to one another for quite some time, saying nothing. Ron'd concluded that Pansy's brush with severe hypothermia had actually rendered her rather weak, despite the distraction of her unusually loud mouth. He was positive at least forty-eight hours had gone by since he'd left Harry and Hermione to the library and had trekked across the moor after her, and while he was confident help would find them relatively soon, since he'd taken on care of Pansy's well-being, he felt responsible for her in a way that was both befuddling to him, and something he had only even remotely experienced with Harry and Hermione previously. The fact was, though, that she simply wasn't comparable to his best mates, so the compulsion to hover like Molly might was really rather off-putting to him.

"How're you doing?" he asked, for the millionth time.

"Still fine."

"Warm?"

"Warm as I'll get, I expect." Her elbow touched his as she glanced up at him. "How long until they find us, do you think?"

"Dunno. Maybe another day or two. Depends on the storm." Hopefully it wouldn't be a week-long event. That kind of exceptionally bad weather was unusual in Scotland, but it wasn't unheard of. "How'd you know about this cave, anyway?"

"Draco," she said simply. "His father told him about it. We've been coming here since first year." She shrugged even though he couldn't see her. "Maybe it's a Slytherin thing? Seems like all my housemates visit at some point or another."

Ron'd never imagined that the other houses had secret hideaways; after all, it was Sirius and Remus and Harry's dad, and the Rat Fink, who'd made the Marauders Map way back when, and then Fred and George'd had it after that, and they'd passed it down to Harry. He realised he'd never really sat down and studied the Marauders Map; they used it to track the going-ons of people, not for anything else really, and Ron suddenly felt gypped, as if he had denied himself the opportunity to discover new and useful places. He made a mental note to borrow the map from Harry once they were back at school for further study.

"Where's your secret place, Weasley?" she continued, her voice mellow; Ron reckoned she was tiring again. "Where do the Gryffindors play?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret anymore."

"You know about our place!"

"That's your bloody fault," he said, smiling to himself. "Trotting off into a blizzard. Dumb bint."

She knocked his elbow with her own as she managed a small harumph. "I get it, fucko, thanks."

"Did you just call me a fucko?"

"Mmhmm." She rolled onto her side and, well, snuggled against his side, pulling Methuselah tighter around them, balling up into herself. Her head slipped onto his arm; Ron turned his head in surprise, inadvertently burying his nose in her hair, and for a moment he smelt lemon verbena. Quickly he jerked his head back, staring straight up again, and a strange flushing sensation washed through him, which was both a warning and . . . something else. Fucking shite, he thought, almost panicking slightly. Taking a deep breath, he let it out silently, and reasoned with himself. You're tired, he thought, shifting slightly so that her head rested in a more comfortable position for him. Tired. And likely hallucinating 'cos of the cold. Maybe this is really a dream after all. Maybe we're not really here, and we're just an atom on the fingernail of a gorilla somewhere . . . Yeah. Pansy breathed deeply, and Ron felt her ribcage expand gently against his side.

"First thing I'm having when we're back is scones," he blurted out, anxious to divert his thoughts.

"With clotted cream?"

"No," he said. "Don't like it."

"Coffee."

"I don't like coffee either."

"No," she said. "That's what I want. Coffee."

"But what about the food?"

"Sod food." Her voice took on a dreamy tone. "Just coffee."

"Come on. What about food? We'll be starving by then."

"Just coffee! I swear it!"

"That's mental," Ron snorted. "Don't you eat?"

"'Course I eat." She shifted next to him. "Hmm. An omelet would be lovely. With fresh mushrooms and tomatoes and brie." She turned her head toward him for a moment. "Better?"

"An omelet?"

"What's wrong with an omelet?"

"Dunno," he said, staring up at the ceiling of the cave and shoving his free hand into the pocket of his trousers. "Bit pretentious, I reckon."

"Exactly how's a dish created from objects expelled from a chicken's arse qualify as 'pretentious'?" she asked mischievously.

He grimaced. "Um, ew? Thanks for that mental image there!"

"Don't forget the yolk," she added slyly; he could hear the smirk in her voice. "Ever open an egg and there's that disgusting bloody blob of chicken embryo stuck to the yolk part? Now that's gross. I always wonder if the house elves bother to throw out the eggs with the chunks of embryo stuck to them . . . " She paused for a moment as Ron's stomach turned at the thought, as he inventoried the amount of eggs he'd likely eaten at Hogwarts over the past six and a half years. "Or do they just mix 'em up and serve 'em anyway? That's why I always have omelets made only of egg whites. The white's where all the protein is, anyway."

"That's fecking disgusting, Parkinson," Ron said, shaking his head. "I'm never eating eggs again."

"Eggs!" she said brightly, dropping her hand behind her thigh to poke at his leg. "Remember, they've come from a chicken's arse!"

"Stop," he groaned, elbowing her in the back. "If I had anything in my stomach, I might spew."

"Well, dont, because I'm not Evanescoing after you," she said. "Shall we discuss other food choices? Haggis, perhaps?"

"No," he said emphatically. "'Sides, Evanesco doesn't work for spew. Learnt that the hard way."

"Yes, it does so work," she countered, a touch cross at his ignorance. "Evanesco works for all natural-based substances. Don't you listen in Charms?"

"Yeah, I listen! Sheesh, who cares anyway? There's Scourgify too--" Ron was set on relaying a few sentences comparing and contrasting the benefits of Evanesco versus Scourgify, when the flaming inkpot sputtered suddenly and died, plunging them into darkness. "Crap!"

"Go light another, Weasley," Pansy directed, shivering again.

"Can't."

"What?"

"I can't," he explained, as patiently as possible. "There's no more ink. It's all burnt up."

"What?" There was a slight edge of panic to her voice. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Tell you what? That the ink was almost gone? What good would that've done? You'd have just whinged on about our impending doom for hours . . . "

"I would not have!" Pansy lied, glossing over her natural inclinations. "Dumbarse! Now what'll we do? What's your back-up plan?"

"Er--"

"Oh, for sod's sake!" She threw Methuselah back, drawing her wand. "Lumos."

Ron sat up, pawing his cloak from his head. Reflexively he grabbed her wrist. "Wait! What're you doing?"

She yanked her arm away from his grasp as if she'd been burned. "Plan B," she said, glaring at him. "Seeing as you don't have one." She shook her head and turned, hurrying toward the piles of goods they'd made when they'd inventoried each others' rucksacks. "My mother used to always say never leave a woman's job to a man . . . . "

"Oh, fuck your sodding mother, Parkinson!"

She whirled on him then, her eyes flashing angrily; he could see this much, even in the dim light. "Impulsus!" A thin, yellow jet of light streaked for him and before he could react it hit him square in the chest, and a jolting, painful shock radiated through his body.

"Ahh!" He clutched at his chest, reeling sideways several steps, putting out his hand to brace himself against the stone wall of the cave. "Shite on a stick!" he breathed, his eyes watering. "What the fucking sod was that?"

Her voice was tight. "Don't you dare insult my mother!"

He stared at her in disbelief. "Dare to say something about your mother?" he asked incredulously, and suddenly he was drowning in a wave of rage. "Dare to say something about your mother? Parkinson? Fuck you." He crossed the small space between them in quick, angry strides, his fury taking over the physical pain he'd been dealt. Pansy's eyes widened slightly as he approached, and he was savagely glad that at this one moment he had the upper hand as she stepped backward. "Fuck you, fuck your sodding house, fuck your piece-of-shite, prejudiced, inbred, sorry-arsed boyfriend, fuck your Voldemort-cocksucking family, and I will say whatever the fuck I want about whatever I want, and that includes your fucking mother, got that? 'Cos it's not like I haven't had to listen to your and your fucking crap for the past six years, about my family!" Ron was completely and utterly enraged; the fact that Pansy was female only barely kept him from beating her to a bloody pulp. "Don't you ever fucking hex me again. If you do? I will fucking kill you." He didn't mean it literally, of course, but it was the only fitting thing to say at that particular moment. Instead of hitting her, however, he reached down and nicked Methuselah from the ground and pulled it on angrily, shoving his arms into the sleeves.

Ron stalked as far away from her as he could and turned his back to the wall, sliding down its rough surface to sit, shaking with anger. He laid his forearms across the tops of his bent knees, his lit wand in hand, his face clouded with emotion. Fucking -bitch-, he thought, utterly livid. I hope she freezes to death. I'll be glad to carry her fucking corpse back to Hogwarts. Reckon that mental Muggle bloke had it spot on . . . what the eff's his name again? Ron wracked his brain, trying to remember the details of the story Hermione had regaled him and Harry with this Hallowe'en past. Vlad the Impaler, yeah . . . He sullenly nursed his dark fantasy of marching proudly back to Hogwarts once this was over, a dead and frozen Pansy Parkinson firmly impaled with a sharp stick, like some kind of macabre arctic lolly.

Several minutes passed before Pansy tried again. "I need--"

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, cutting her off. "I don't give a shite what you need. Nox." The blackest dark he'd ever experienced fell then, unforgiving and still, and he tipped his head back sharply, banging it a bit too hard against the rough stone, but he found he really didn't care.

---

He had no idea how much time had passed by the time her voice sliced through the darkness again.

"I need to pee."

"Good for you." He would not relent.

"Seriously!"

"Don't even fucking talk to me."

"Okay, I get it," Pansy snipped, from somewhere off to his left. "You know the 'F' word. Ooo, big badarse, you."

Ron refused to answer. He was still fuming, and he'd spent the last hour or so seriously contemplating why he'd even care about Pansy Parkinson's opinion of him or his. Did he care? It, well, worried him, yeah, that he was this wraught up -- he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt more resentful in a single episode, and he'd be goddamned if that didn't include his row with Harry fourth year, right before the first Triwizard task. It was, perhaps, because the row with Harry was at least understandable in hindsight. Ron knew he'd been a right prick to Harry, and of course he'd been sorry for it at the time; however, his young, awkward sense of pride had rendered him simply unversed in how to apologise, so he just hadn't. Not until Harry's mortality had been very much jeopardised by the Hungarian Horntail, that is. He'd blustered to Harry right there in the dragons tent, and Hermione'd cried, and Harry hadn't made him say the actual words. Sometimes, though, Ron wondered if he maybe should have anyway.

It was water long under the bridge, though. Harry was his best mate, and he'd do anything for their friendship, and that was just bloody well that.

Another half-hour passed before she spoke again. "Weasley."

He still didn't answer.

"I really do have to pee."

"So?" he growled. "What're you? Ruddy specimen of the month? Everyone takes a piss sometime, Parkinson. Fucking go outside and do it."

"Don't be such a prick about it!"

Ron could hear the hint of frustration in her voice; he hoped her ruddy twee bladder'd explode right inside her. "Um, pot? Kettle here, yeah," he said coldly. "Go on and take your piss, then."

"It's too cold out there . . . "

"Well, too bad for you."

She was quiet for some time, but Ron finally heard her begin to move about. "Lumos," she incanted dully, and his eyes seized painfully at the sudden light. He refused to look at her directly, but rather chose to keep watch surreptitiously from under his lashes. She was rubbing her upper arms briskly and he could see her breath hanging in the air when she exhaled. "Fine," she said shortly. "I'll go." With a wave of her wand the rock in front of the entrance rolled aside; snow and wind howled in through the opening as Pansy dropped down and crawled out of the cave and into the night blizzard.

---

She was gone for fifteen minutes or so, and Ron refused to put the rock back into place while she was out, so it was only a matter of minutes before the cave was bitterly cold from the wind. He wanted to look outside, to see if it was night or day, but he ultimately decided it was definitely night. Even in a blizzard, if it had been daytime, some kind of outside light would have filtered into the cave when Pansy had rolled the rock aside. Three nights now, with Parkinson, he thought darkly. If I die in here with her . . . .

"Weasley?" She'd crawled back into the cave, and now she lingered at the mouth of its entrance on all fours, her head dropped down, her long, dark hair brushing the stone floor. Finally she glanced up at him, her lit wand frozen into her grip, and her face was as hard and bitter as ever, yet there was something else there -- a fleeting shadow of need -- and Ron knew instantly that she would never ask for his help, no matter what. She'd likely die before outright asking, although just by looking at her he could tell that she was decending into hypothermia again. Silently he watched her, not responding to her weak enquiry, and they held one another's gaze, long and hard. Her mouth opened slightly and for a split-second Ron thought she was going to give, and ask, but instead she shifted her gaze past him, to the pallet she'd transfigured, and she crawled over stiffly and laid down, her back to him. She drew her knees up, encircling them with her arms -- "Nox . . ." -- and then letting go of her wand. Ron watched as it rolled from her grip, stopping several inches away from her. He made to douse his own wand, but thought twice. He was still bloody hacked off with her, but seeing her like this did anything but justify his anger. No, the ever-alert, quick-to-squabble, utterly rude Pansy Parkinson was the one that fueled his ire. Now, he found he was further hacked off with her because she wasn't hacking him off in her current condition. How bloody irrational.

Sighing, he let his own head drop for a moment, and then pushed away from the wall. He made his way over to the pallet and looked down at her lying there, shivering and pale, and undid Methuselah's fastenings, regretting he'd let the freezing wind swirl through the cave. He laid next to her, on his side this time, drawing the cloak over both of them, and she drew herself against him like a magnet to steel, shaking violently. He used his own arm as a pillow, his head cradled in the crook of his elbow, his ear resting on his hand. He couldn't bring himself to put his arm around her, though; this would have to do.

---

Hermione's hair was wild and bushy, but he didn't reckon it was any less soft to the touch than anyone else's. She was flying in front of him on the pitch, dressed in Gryffindor robes, and this was both confusing and highly . . . erotic. Ron flattened himself against the handle of his broom, urging it forward, and reached; the tips of his fingers brushed through the ends of Hermione's hair and suddenly their brooms were gone. He lurched downward, staring up at her as she twisted in the sky, her own fingers reaching toward him, and then they both plunged from the sky, head over heel, careening through the still air, and then they were lying in the sun-warmed grass and Ron could feel the leather of Hermione's Quidditch glove against his cheek as she caressed him there. He kissed her, and then they were rolling, and--

"Bird's Foot . . . verbena . . . lemongrass . . ."

Ron was jolted from his dream, disoriented. "Wha--huh?"

"Lavender, peppermint, and colloidal oats . . . "

Her head was on his forearm; he must have stretched it out during his sleep. He pushed up as best as he could, fumbling for his wand, lighting it. "Parkinson?"

She was clearly asleep. "Hmm?" she hummed faintly, her breathing still even and slow. "Draco?"

Ron rolled his eyes to himself. "No," he said emphatically, stressing the point. "Sorry."

She didn't move a stitch. "Mmm," she breathed, still not awake. "Draco? Too tired to shag. Another time . . . "

"Er--" He wondered where the sod those particular sentiments had come from; his dream about Hermione flitted through his mind and he realised with a cold rush of humiliation that he was hard as a rock, and Pansy's warm arse was pressed firmly against his erection. "Holy fucking shite!" He practically windmilled across the cave, a tumble of limbs and cloak, ripping Pansy from her deep sleep with a start, the sudden rush of cold air against her as he withdrew with Methuselah undoubtedly a rude wake-up call.

She pushed up sleepily, twisting around, confused. "What's your problem?"

Ron was mortified; he pulled his cloak up to his neck, peering over its top. "Don't come any closer!"

"What?" She was truly befuddled.

"Just--just stay there!"

She shot him a withering look, then yawned, and sat up all the way, crossing her legs indian-style; she stretched her arms up over her head, fingers laced together, leaning off to the right, and then the left in an unconscious calisthenic show of sorts. Ron caught a glimpse of a pale slice of skin at her waist as her blouse and jumper lifted away at the motion, and he glanced away guiltily, his body awash with adrenaline and the flush of embarrassed humiliation and the residual tingle of desire.

Pansy rose stiffly to her feet; she touched the tip of her wand to her teeth -- "Refresco" -- and smacked her lips. Lifting her hand she dragged her fingers halfheartedly through her hair and surveyed the scene as Ron clutched Methuselah over himself protectively. She turned to him, hands on her hips. "What's your bloody problem? I was sleeping there!"

Thank God it was basically dark, for he knew his face was flaming. "Nevermind." He lowered the edge of his cloak from his face. "Just, uh . . . right, then. Yeah."

"Why, yes of course that makes perfect sense." She shook her head, thinking he was in his usual ignorant form. She knelt down at their things, muttering under their breath, "Idiot . . . " She moved several items around and came back up with her Herbology text; she stood with it in her hand, looking down at it for a long time. "This was my mother's book when she was at Hogwarts," she noted, using a normal tone.

Ron stared warily at her. "Yeah, well, you'll understand I'll be skipping any chat involving your mother from here on out, thanks." Pansy ignored him, instead moving over to the pallet. Standing with her heels at its edge, she took exactly three steps from the pallet and once again knelt down. The sound of tearing paper echoed through the cave, and despite himself, Ron craned his neck, curious. "What're you doing?"

"It's too bloody cold in here," she said. "And since we're out of ink . . . "

He was momentarily possessed by the Official Spirit of Hermione. "You're burning a book?"

"You've a better suggestion?"

"Well, that'll give us, oh, three whole minutes of fire," he said. "This another one of your brilliant Snape survival skills?"

"Shut up." She sounded weary, like the bite was gone from her, and this filled him with an inexplicable sense of dread.

"Do you--what should I do?"

"Nothing. Incendio." She leaned over; Ron couldn't quite see what she was doing, although he assumed she was lighting the book on fire. He leaned sideways, trying to see, and caught the sound of her whispering.

"What're you doing?" he asked again. She put her hand out, shushing him, still incanting quietly. Sod it, he thought, and got to his feet, still holding Methuselah in front of him strategically, and came up behind her, peering over her shoulder.

"--jadu ke mausam--" She waved her wand over the burning parchment of the torn Herbology page, her words barely audible. Curious, Ron knelt down and watched her silently. "--garmiyo ke din--" She sounded as if she were singing the spell.

"What're--"

She put her hand out again, gesturing at him fiercely, and when he shut his yap she let her hand drop unconsciously to his forearm; she clutched at him. Her eyes were shut tightly, and she was swaying ever-so-slightly as she incanted. Ron flicked his eyes toward the creeping flame.

"--a'o mantra--"

The parchment shivered and curled upward for a moment, and then settled back onto the stone floor of the cave again. She paused and Ron watched as her lips moved silently, as if she were chatting to herself, but then she burst forth with a cluster of words -- "--bimari hata'o--" -- that Ron couldn't make heads nor tails of, and a great roar of fire rushed upward, maybe two feet into the air, and he leaned back instinctively as its heat washed over his cheeks. He blinked and the fire tempered itself into a smallish flame, an emerald green colour seeping upward from its base, replacing the hot yellowish orange there.

"What the sod is that?" he asked slowly, leaning in for a closer look. "What'd you do?"

She looked at him, her face serious and shadowed in the green light. "I practised my survival skills."

He snorted. "Big deal. I give it two minutes."

"Why's that?" she asked angrily. "What, you don't think I might possibly know something useful?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Well, you're wrong."

He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. "We'll see about that."

"You're an arsehole," she said, looking right at him, and he realised she wasn't just saying it under the guise of her usual trolling.

"What, that's news to you, Parkinson?" He almost laughed in her face. "Haven't you been telling me that for yonks now?"

She stared into the fire. "Rodolphe burned books to survive," she said.

"Huh?"

"Rodolphe."

"Who's Rodolphe?"

She lifted a finger toward their things across the way. "In La Bohème. Rodolphe is freezing. He burns his manuscript to stay warm." She trained her wand. "Accio, La Bohème." The book flew over the fire; she dropped it, her frozen fingers clumsy and stiff. "Sod."

Ron leaned over and pushed it toward her, and budged over closer. "So's that one of Snape's survival charms?" he asked, thumbing at the fire. "A Slytherin charm?"

"Slytherin charm?"

"Well, it's green."

"Totally incidental," she shrugged, tearing another page from her Herbology text and feeding it to the flames. "My governess taught it to me, actually. It's Sanskrit. An Indian charm." She glanced sideways at him for a moment. "It'd be good of me to let her know it actually works."

"What sort of spell's that anyway?"

"It's a healing charm of sorts." She hesitated before continuing, seeming unsure how to explain it exactly. "It only works under certain circumstances. I don't know how to explain-- it just gives you what you need, is all."

"A fire?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "What, you don't think we need fire?"

"Obviously we need fire, bint!"

"Well, then?"

"Just dunno why you'd burn your mother's precious book, for a few minutes of fire." He lifted his hand, waving it around. "It won't heat this place! It's too massive!"

"That's what the charm was for, you ignorant scab!"

"What're you going on about?"

"Maybe I don't feel arsed to explain," she said. "Clearly you wouldn't believe me anyway."

"Well!" he protested. "Not like you've been blessed in the brains department."

"How would you know what I am or am not blessed with?" she asked hotly. "You don't know what my marks are!"

"Yeah, well, it's pretty ruddy obvious, Parkinson." He was still miffed from their earlier altercation.

"Whatever, Weasley." She stared into the fire again, sitting very still. "Sod off and leave me alone."

"Gladly." He didn't move, but rather considered the fire, wondering why the single piece of parchment hadn't yet burnt up. Could it be that she had actually performed a useful task? And, if so, why the bloody hell'd it take her all this time to act? He voiced his concern. "How come you're just doing this now?" he asked, accusatorily. "Reckon we've been in this sodding cave for near two full days now! Why didn't you suss this out before?"

"I don't know." She seemed mesmerised by the silent green flames and their licking shadows. "I always thought my governess was a liar anyway."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind."

"Feck, Parkinson! Do you trust anybody?" Ron asked, her innate paranoia totally foreign to him.

"Of course," she said. "Myself."

"And?" he prompted.

She shook her head. "I am not having this conversation with you, Weasel. No way. It's none of your business where my loyalties lie."

"But . . . but it doesn't make any sense! To live like that." He gestured at her. "You're always so cross and strung up. Can't be much fun, that!"

"Maybe it doesn't make any sense to you, but it works just fine for me." She picked up her book and began absentmindedly ruffling the pages; the slight fluttering sound was eerie in the darkened space. "Besides, my countenance's got nothing to do with it."

"But--"

"Change the subject, please," she ordered, in a clipped tone.

Ron looked away, frustrated. "To what?"

"Whatever. I don't care. Politics?"

"Um, no." He rolled his eyes and picked at a stray bit of fluff on Methuselah. "Think we're pretty damn clear on that."

"Oh, are we?" She gave him a serious look. "Fine. Sex, then?"

"NO." He inched away from her slightly.

"Religion?"

"I've got nothing to offer. Bollocks, that, far as I'm concerned."

"Probably better," she informed him. "Civilised folk aren't supposed to talk about--" she ticked off on her fingers "--politics, sex, religion, or . . . " She paused, giving him a knowing look.

"Or what?" He couldn't help ruminating over the fact that almost all conversations his family held had something to do with the three topics she's just laid out as off-limits.

"Finances," she said triumphantly.

"Oh, die, Parkinson." He shook his head again, vaguely wishing for The Sight, so he could check on the status of their rescue mission. He hadn't wavered in his belief that Dumbledore and the others were coming after them, but he was bloody sick and tired of waiting, especially with this shite. "Just find something to do on your own, would you?"

She snorted, giving him a sly look. "Something to do on my own?" she repeated. "I thought you said we wouldn't be covering sexual topics today."

Ron's mouth fell open and he stared, stunned for a moment. "What?"

She grinned slyly. "Now, there's nothing wrong with that sort of thing. It's perfectly natural!" She pushed lightly at his hand with her fingertips. "I'm sure you do it all the time, right?"

"I do not!" he lied, sorely lamenting the fact he was still six weeks shy of his Apparation license. "Quit talking like a slag!"

"Oh, does the topic really bother you that much?" she asked. "Such a prude, Weasley!"

"I am not a sodding prude!" Ron didn't think he could possibly get any redder; he tugged at his collar, completely mortified. "Only girls are prudes! Boys are . . . dunno. Something else."

"And I'm not a slag. Funny, that." She gave him a superiour look. "So you admit you're not shagging anyone at present, then?"

"God, read your fucking book or something!" He was seriously contemplating hexing her; he'd once read of a Charm that removed the mouths from people who were too chatty, and it seemed a keen option at this particular juncture. He'd be well within his rights. Reaching over, he picked up the dog-eared paperback from her lap and shoved it into her hands. "Here. Read." Anything to change the subject.

Pansy gave Ron a very long look. "Very well," she conceded, amused. "If you insist." She took a moment, shuffling through the pages of the book, searching for one particular spot. "I shall read to you about Rodolphe the Turk, seeing as we're also freezing to death."

Ron rested his chin glumly on the ball of his hand. "Brilliant."

She cleared her throat delicately. "Ostracised by an inhospitable proprietor, Rodolphe had for some time been leading a life compared with which the existence of a cloud is rather stationary. He practiced assiduously the arts of going to bed without supper, and supping without going to bed. He often dined with Duke Humphrey, and generally slept at the sign of a clear sky. Still, amid all these crosses and troubles, two things never forsook him: his good humour and the manuscript of 'The Avenger,' a drama which had gone the rounds of all the theaters in Paris--"

"What?" Ron interrupted, hating the old-fashioned English.

"Rodolphe's a starving artist. He's written a drama called The Avenger."

"Right." He sighed resignedly, listening for several moments in silence as she read along.

"At the moment of our entry, the occupant of the premises, a young man, dressed like a Turk of the Comic Opera, is finishing a repast, in which he shamelessly violates the law of the Prophet. Witness a bone that was once a ham, and a bottle that has been full of wine. His meal over, the young Turk stretches himself on the floor in true Eastern style, and begins carelessly to smoke a Narghile--"

"He's smoking Nargles?!" Ron pulled a face, trying to imagine such a thing.

"No, dullard! A Narghile," she enunciated slowly. "And if you wouldn't interrupt, you'd know by now what they are." She picked up again. "Whilst abandoning himself to this Asiatic luxury, he passes his hand from time to time over the back of a magnificent Newfoundland dog, who would doubtless respond to its caresses were he not also 'in terra cotta,' to match the rest of the furniture . . ."

He started to interject again, but stifled the urge, the mental image of a hand passing over the back of a Newfoundland dog looping in his mind, and he was suddenly very still. Had Sirius ever used this cave to hide in? Were there remnants of him here? The Black family was Slytherin; Sirius surely knew of this place . . .

Pansy continued with her reading. "Suddenly a noise was heard in the entry, and the door opened, admitting a person who, without saying a word, marched straight to one of the stoves, which served the purpose of a secretary, opened the stove-door, and drew out a bundle of papers. 'Hallo!' cried the newcomer, after examining the manuscript attentively, 'the chapter on ventilators not finished yet!' 'Allow me to observe, uncle,' replied the Turk, 'the chapter on ventilators is one of the most interesting in your book, and requires to be studied with care. I am studying it.' 'But you miserable fellow, you are always saying that same thing. And the chapter on stoves -- where are you in that?' 'The stoves are going on well, but, by the way, uncle, if you could give me a little wood, it wouldn't hurt me. It is a little Siberia here. I am so cold, that I make a thermometer go down below zero by just looking at it.' 'What! you've used up one faggot already?'--"

"Faggot?" He furrowed his brow. "D'you mean ciggies? Sheesh, these ruddy blokes smoke up all day, don't they?"

"Wood," she clarified. "Not smokes. Small bundles of wood. 'What! you've used up one faggot already?' 'Allow me to remark again, uncle, there are different kinds of faggots, and yours was the very smallest kind.' 'I'll send you an economic log -- that keeps the heat.' 'Exactly, and doesn't give any.' 'Well,' said the uncle as he went off, 'you shall have a little faggot, and I must have my chapter on stoves for tomorrow.' 'When I have fire, that will inspire me,' answered the Turk as he heard himself locked in . . ." She looked up. "Ah, see, they're playing quid pro quo, and neither will win. Rodolphe is resourceful, but he requires motivation. His Uncle doesn't understand how Rodolphe works. He should just give Rodolphe some wood. So Hufflepuffian of them, wouldn't you say?"

"Hufflepuffian?"

"The Hufflepuffs never give anything without a promise for something in return," Pansy remarked offhandedly, as if this was the accepted general thought.

Ron thought about Hannah Abbott. "Yeah, maybe." And Zacharias Smith, that sod. He always wanted something, particularly answers to questions that weren't his concern.

"Here." She pushed the book at him. "Your turn."

"Huh?"

"I'm tired."

"You've only been reading for five minutes!"

"Well, I'm tired!"

"I don't like reading aloud."

"We could talk about shagging again, if you'd prefer?"

Ron made a gagging noise. "No way." He knew she was deliberately trying to provoke him; however, he also knew she was the type to expound on the subject, just to hack him off and try and make him feel uncomfortable. "Give me the ruddy book." He whisked it from her hand, running his finger under the lines she had just recited, finding where she'd left off. "Er--" Ron gave a slight cough. "Uh, right then. One Sunday, after having sweated blood and ink upon the great chapter of ventilators, Rodolphe broke the pen, which was burning his fingers, and went out to walk -- in his 'park.' As if on purpose to plague him, and excite his envy the more, he could not cast a single look about him without perceiving the figure of a smoker on every window--" He lowered the book. "This is dumb! All this bloke does is smoke ciggies and--and Nargles or whatever, or think about smoking!" Ron gestured animatedly. "That's not healthy! We shouldn't be reading this--"

She leaned against his upper arm, looking up at him coyly. "So," she interrupted, in a falsely sweet tone. "How old were you anyway, the first time you shagged someone? I myself was fourteen."

"Oh bleurgh." He shivered with revulsion. "All right!" he sputtered. "Fine. Just shut the bloody hell up already, god!" Ron took a deep breath, ignoring the fact that Pansy was still leaning against him; at least, he didn't tell her to move. "Parkinson, don't read over my shoulder. That's damn annoying, yeah?"

"I'll close my eyes. I said I was tired."

"Right . . . hey," he said, squinting at the page. "Missed a bit. Uh, guess I'll start over. Anyway . . . Our hero is not what he appears to be. The turban does not make the Turk. This young man is our friend Rodolphe, entertained by his uncle, for whom he is drawing up a manual of 'The Perfect Chimney Constructor.' In fact, Monsieur Monetti, an enthusiast for his art, had consecrated his days to this science of chimneys. One day he formed the idea of drawing up, for the benefit of posterity, a theoretic code of the principles of that art, in the practise of which he so excelled, and he had chosen his nephew, as we have seen, to frame the substance of his ideas in an intelligible form. Rodolphe was found in board, lodging, and other contingencies, and at the completion of the manual was to receive a recompense of three hundred francs. In the beginning, to encourage his nephew, Monetti had generously made him an advance of fifty francs. But Rodolphe, who had not seen so much silver together for nearly a year, half crazy, in company with his money, stayed out three days, and on the fourth came home alone! Thereupon the uncle, who was in haste to have his "Manual" finished inasmuch as he hoped to get a patent for it, dreading some new diversion on his nephew's part, determined to make him work by preventing him from going out. To this end he carried off Rodolphe's garments, and left for him instead the Turk disguise under which we have seen him. Nevertheless, the famous 'Manual' continued to make very slow progress, for Rodolphe had no genius whatever for this kind of literature. The uncle avenged himself for this lazy indifference on the great subject of chimneys by making his nephew undergo a host of annoyances. Sometimes he cut short his commons, and frequently he stopped the supply of Rodolphe's tobacco--" Ron again dropped his hand, his arm stretching across his bent knee, his thumb marking the page. "Fourteen?" he boggled to her, his lip curling slightly as he turned his head to look down at her. "You're lying--"

Pansy was fast asleep, her cheek pressed against his upper arm.

He jostled her. "Parkinson?"

She jolted upright. "Hmm?"

"Uh, maybe you'd rather have a bit of a lie-in?"

She looked around. "Where's the cloak?"

"Huh? Oh. Here." He lifted it over to her. "Does the fire need another page?" He looked at her questioningly, making a mental note to look into . . . charms that gave one what they needed once they were back at school.

Pansy nodded, stretching out onto her side, pulling Methuselah over her. "Give it two, just to be sure. But since the charm's worked at all, we won't have to worry." Her eyes drifted shut again. "Maybe it'll even get warm in here . . . . "

Ron fed two pages to the fire; it was odd to place parchment into a hot, burning flame, and to see it just sit there and not combust immediately into a sheet of ash within seconds. He added one more page just to be certain and placed Pansy's Herbology text next to the pallet and scooted around her, lying down so her back was once again to his side, and he burrowed under his cloak, taking care to ensure they were both completely covered. "You asleep?" he asked, after a moment; she didn't respond. He felt bored and restless and not himself at all. He was tired, but his mind was racing -- this whole bloody experience was too much to fathom anymore. He'd checked the weather regularly, rolling the entrance rock aside and going out to actually look. He'd lost track of how many times it was pitch black versus an angry grey, although he was quite positive it had been at least three days, possibly even four by now. He made another mental note to chastise Pansy for eating practically all the sweets -- there were hardly any left by now, and no matter what he did to ration them, she was clearly somehow managing to sneak taffies and chocolate from his pockets or something, for the supply was definitely dwindling. They'd Scourgifyed all the empty ink bottles as the ink flames had burnt out, and each time Ron went out to take a piss, he'd pack them full of snow so it'd melt for water; no matter how many times they cleaned the bottles, the bitter hint of ink remained as an aftertaste, yet this was better than dying of thirst. He didn't understand why the first ink flame had burnt for hours and hours, but after that it seemed as if he was lighting ink left and right.

He laced his fingers across his belly, staring into the dark lining of his cloak. Greenish light filtered through in a few select places, in a perfect line of pinpricks, sneaking in through the thread holes. It wasn't very bright and Ron squinted until the green bled into the black lining, Pansy's even breathing the only sound. Ron snaked his hand into his pocket and drew his wand; lighting it, he pushed slightly on one elbow and leaned over her tentatively. "Parkinson?" he whispered, drawing the light over her until her face was illuminated. She was definitely asleep; her lids didn't even twitch as the light fell over her. He looked at the cleft in her chin and her funny nose; it was a curious thing to inspect one's enemy while sleeping, he thought, moving his wand upward slightly. She had a widow's peak, too. "Parkinson?" he asked again, watching closely. When she didn't stir he slowly laid back, a strange, rising sense of panic niggling at him. "Sod it." He groped around until he found La Bohème; tucking his lit wand behind his ear so it provided an overhead light of sorts and found where he'd left off. On the gilt balcony of a new house opposite, an exquisite in his dressing gown was biting off the end of an aristocratic 'Pantellas' cigar. A story above, an artist was sending before him an odourous cloud of Turkish tobacco from his amber-mouthed pipe. At the window of a brasserie, a fat German was crowning a foaming tankard, and emitting, with the regularity of a machine, the dense puffs that escaped from his meershaum. On the other side, a group of workmen were singing as they passed on their way to the barriers, their 'throat-scorchers' between their teeth. Finally, all the other pedestrians visible in the street were smoking.' This Bohème lot was near as bad as his brother Bill with their obsession with tobacco and other like products, Ron noted, not understanding the appeal of smoking strange things in strange ways. He flicked his gaze back to the page. 'Woe is me!' sighed Rodolphe, 'except myself and my uncle's chimneys, all creation is smoking at this hour!' And he rested his forehead on the bar of the balcony, and thought how dreary life was . . . .

"What's the different blocks mean?"

Ron surfaced from a dead sleep. "Huh?"

"On Methuselah?"

He pushed up onto his elbow, lighting his wand. He squinted at it flared to life, blinking. "Um . . . I can't see them really." Ron yawned then and settled back, realising as he did so that Pansy was using his gut as a pillow, her hands clasped under her chin rather primly and her arms pressed against her chest. "What're you doing?" he asked, baffled.

"You want me to move?"

"Do I want you to move?" Did he want her to move? Of bloody course he did, and he didn't understand what the right sod was up with her -- how could she be such a horrid, heinous, beastly creature on one hand, yet with the simple placement of her dark head onto his tummy, bring a sense of rather plaintive vulnerability forth? Ron wanted to thwap her on the forehead or something, to just give her a swift, hard flick between the eyes and see her explode in rage; however . . . "Reckon it doesn't really matter." He tried desperately to fight against the rising sense of panic licking at his insides. What if they never come for us?

Pansy reached downward and pulled a corner of Methuselah upward, turning it inside-out so the outer fabric was exposed. She looked up at Ron. "Did your mother make this?"

Ron's innards seized, and he stared down at her wordlessly. He didn't want to talk to Pansy Parkinson about his mother -- his family, really. No way in hell was he giving her more ammunition for her relentless bullying. No way in hell was he going to open himself up to her like that, and he was struck by a profound sense of protectiveness at that moment regarding his family, and without thinking he volleyed back at her. "What, don't you have your own family to go on about?"

"What?" She looked puzzled, not understanding why he might not just open up to her because she fancied herself in a calm mood.

"Well?"

She shifted then, rolling onto her back while still using his belly as a pillow. She drew her knees up so they were still covered by his cloak and laced her fingers together in the recess of her own stomach. She sighed dramatically and Ron could visualise her rolling her eyes. "Of course I have a family, Weasley. Why wouldn't I?"

"Dunno. 'Cos all these years I figured you'd been hatched?"

"We're going to die here."

Ron was taken aback. "Shut up, Parkinson." He surprised himself with his vehemence. "If you think I'm settling in for a dirt nap with you just yet, you've got another thing coming." He squeezed his hands into tight fists to keep from acting on his prior impulse to really thump her on the conk. When she didn't respond, he sighed, a strange, defeated feeling coming over him. "Where'd'you live anyway? When we're not here, I mean."

"Hogwarts," she said glumly; Ron could see her picking at her cuticle. "Slytherin House."

"Do you want me to flick you between the eyes?" he asked impatiently. "Just answer the ruddy question!"

"Why do you want to know?" she shot back, a touch haughtily; oddly, this relieved Ron.

"I don't. It's just something to pass the time."

"Right," she said, and turned yet again, to lie on her side facing him. "Wiltshire."

Posh. Figures. "Mmm," he said, noncommitally. "And before you ask, yes, I've been there." Lavender Brown held summer parties every year, and he'd always gone along. Good food there, yeah. The Browns had excellent house elves.

"Been to Lavender Brown's stupid parties, I expect," Pansy sneered. "Predictable."

"Blow it out your old wazoo, would you? Yeah, like it's stupid for me to go to my own housemate's on an invite."

"I'll bet they're still horrible, boring parties. Does she make you all play croquet with real flamingoes and hedgehogs? I'll bet she does . . . I always hated that game dumb game of hers . . . . "

How'd she know? "'Spect there's nothing wrong with croquet."

"Sure. I'll bet everyone spends the entire party trying to figure out how to escape to the back gardens for Quidditch."

"Er--"

"Thought so," she said, smugly. "When's your birthday?"

He hesitated. "First of March."

"Well, I'm June fifteenth," she said, assuming he even remotely cared. "And Draco's is fifteenth August! Isn't that brilliant? I was born two months early, you know -- my mother and Draco's mother were expecting at the same time." She adopted a confidential tone, and Ron seriously began to wonder if she was going mental. "My mother always said I was a right royal pain in the arse from the get-go!"

He didn't feel himself at all -- this was just too effing weird. Pansy was chatting to him like they were confidantes; Ron found himself both reluctantly intrigued and profoundly lonely for Harry and Hermione, this strange sort of pseudo friendshi-- No, he thought. It wasn't a friendship. It would never be a friendship. He would never, ever allow her the privilege. He just missed Harry and Hermione is all, and he couldn't help himself as the thought snaked through his brain: Maybe we -are- going to die here . . .

"Draco's so punctual," Pansy continued, readjusting herself with a small shake of her head. She drew her knees up to her chest and circled her arms around them tightly; a long bit of her hair settled over Ron's fingers, and he didn't bother to flick it away. "He's so punctual -- so organised -- it's no wonder he arrived exactly on time. He was born right at midnight, you know."

As if he would know. "Never mind the fact that he's biggest bloody arsehole to roam our great planet, he's anal-retentive to boot? Why'm I not surprised?"

"If you think Draco's the biggest bloody arsehole to roam the planet, then you're quite ill-prepared for what lies ahead," Pansy said simply.

He rose back up onto his elbows and looked down at her through the eerie light of his Lumos. "What did you just say?"

She stared back at him calmly. "I said," she reiterated, quite normally in tone, "that you are ill-prepared for what lies ahead." She took great pause then. "Not that what lies ahead matters anymore," she finished bitterly, and Ron wondered for a moment if she were crying, but when he looked her face was dry.

Yet at that moment Ron knew. He knew there was no way in bloody fucking hell that he was going to die in a cave of rocks with Pansy Parkinson when he was needed in the world, and he further had an epiphanous flash of insight that he mattered. Of course he'd always known he mattered per se, but . . . this was different. He mattered. He didn't know his place in the future, or his role alongside Harry and what was looming imminently, but by fucking God he was going to be there to find out, and to plant his personal flag on the hill of life. "I could kiss you, Parkinson," he said, secure in his newfound triumph.

She snorted lightly, flicking a glance up at him. "Oh?"

Ron held her gaze, unflinching, until she looked away; he noticed she was pulling stray pills from his jumper, and a trail of goosebumps rose from the skin at his waist as her fingers fluttered away. He eased himself into a comfortable position, one hand behind his head as he stared into the black folds of Methuselah, glimpses of the green firelight peeking through, and he was soon so lost in thought that he didn't even notice he was combing his fingers absentmindedly through the bit of her hair which had fallen against his hand earlier.

---

They were flying again, him and Hermione, and she had on a Gryffindor Quidditch uniform -- it was Ron's favourite image of Hermione, definitely, and was better than any kind of fancy, miniscule girly nightgown he'd ever seen pictures of. Hermione in full-blown Quidditch regalia, with leather pads and gear . . . Hermione and Quidditch . . . oh -yeah-.

Ron shifted in his sleep slightly, but when he tried to turn onto his side Pansy's knees were in the crook of his neck; she was on her side and he was vaguely aware of her hot breath against his waist, puffing rhythmically through the wool of his jumper as she slept, her face buried in his side. Her head had fallen from his belly at some point; now her arm was draped over his middle. He drifted back to sleep, hoping he'd fall into the same dream . . . .

This time he and Hermione ended up in the Quidditch shed, and he'd pressed her up against the broom lockers, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't manage to kiss her -- she kept turning her head -- and he was grinding against her thigh, which she'd wedged firmly between his legs, and tightening his fingers through her fucking brilliant hair, twisting it around. "Come on come on come . . . " And then Malfoy was there, across the way, sitting on a bench in his Slytherin Quidditch uniform, and he was guiding Pansy's head up and down as she knelt between his legs, and Ron groaned and closed his eyes and breathed against Hermione's neck, and grabbed her hand and brought it to his front. Hermione ran her fingers up and down the front of his trousers, over and over, lightly, through the fabric of his Quidditch uniform, frustrating the shite out of him, and he grabbed her face between his hands, holding it in place firmly. "Fucking -kiss- me, right now!" Suddenly it was Pansy's face between his hands, and Pansy's hand snaking out from the evergreen sleeve of the Slytherin Quidditch robes she was wearing, and then it was the ball of Pansy's hand pressing hard against the front of his trousers, circling expertly against him until he groaned, and she tipped her head up and Ron bit down on her lip and then buried his tongue in her hot, sweet mouth, and thrust against her and came -hard- into his shorts, and--

Ron awoke with a start. His body was awash with sensation and he knew he'd really come -- it'd happened plenty of times before. He let out a ragged breath and tried to regain his bearings, and it took a moment for him to understand that his own hand was at the front of his trousers, trapping Pansy's hand firmly in his grip, and he was pressing it against him. A different kind of a rush washed through him at the realisation, and he waited for Pansy to awaken in full-blown tantrum mode, spitting and kicking and screaming, over what he'd done -- using her hand to get himself off, albeit unconsciously -- but she didn't move.

And when Pansy didn't stir, Ron slowly filled with a savage sense of satisfaction, for he knew nothing would likely hack her off more than the thought of her pretty, posh, petite Parkinson palm being sullied by Weasley come, the latter which was currently seeping through the light wool fabric of his uniform trousers. Giving into his horrified amusement for a moment, he brushed her sleeping hand up and down the length of his spent erection a few times, making sure it was indeed nicely damp before gently lifting her hand away and placing it back into the hollow of his belly. He tucked his own hand behind his head, lacing his fingers, and turned his face into Pansy's knee and began laughing silently, not particularly wanting to wake her, and not giving two shites that his trousers were now cold and sticky, or he was stuck in a cave with a Slytherin, or about his rumbling, empty stomach.

It'd felt good, and he'd deserved it.

---

The next time he woke up, he was alone under Methuselah. Sitting up, he clawed his cloak down over his face and peered around. Pansy was sitting next to the Sanskrit fire she'd conjured, her Herbology text balanced on her thigh as she sat cross-legged, her back to him. Ron heard the sound of another page being ripped from her book as he rubbed at his eyes. Standing, he stretched, and then with a glance down pulled out his shirttails to cover the front of his trousers, grateful for the dark charcoal-coloured wool that helped hide the evidence of what had happened earlier. "All right, Parkinson?" She didn't answer, so he shrugged and gathered up his rucksack and the ink bottles. Rolling the rock to the entrance of the cave aside, he threw on his cloak, and ducked down to crawl out, pulling his bag along behind him.

He was genuinely surprised when he discovered the weather was still raging outside. The bitter, howling wind drove against the warm skin of his cheek, tiny shards of ice pricking painfully at him, and blowing right inside his ear. He quashed a wave of panic. It's only been three days. Four max. These blizzards sometimes last for five days . . . as long as we have water and heat, we'll be all right. He relieved himself and then hurriedly packed snow into the ink bottles, capping them tightly so once the snow melted it wouldn't leak out, and they wouldn't lose any of their precious water reserves. An ink-sized bottle only went so far, although they still had the bottle he'd doubled in size, which helped.

He scuttled back into the cave and hurriedly rolled the rock back into place, his breath hanging in the frigid air just inside the entrance. He stomped the snow away from his feet and shook out his cloak. Carefully he placed the snow-packed ink bottles next to the fire, and lowered himself to sit next to Pansy.

There was a lone taffy next to her.

"It's the last one," she said, not looking at him.

"What?" he boggled, irritated. "What the fuck, Parkinson? There were tonnes of sweets! Did you have to be such a bloody selfish sod about the rations?"

"I didn't eat anything behind your back!" she protested.

"Yeah, sure," he groused, thoroughly pissed off. "Might as well take the last fucking taffy, then. I'm sure you were planning to anyway."

"You're bigger than I am," she said, glancing sideways. Her hand snaked out and the taffy disappeared as she curled her fingers around it. "I was going to eat the last one, but I just wanted you to know that we were out of rations first." She fell quiet as she unwrapped the taffy; the crinkle of the wrapper sounded especially pronounced. Without fanfair she ate the sweet, chewing thoughtfully for a full minute before swallowing. "That's it."

Ron said nothing, but stared darkly at the fire, not looking elsewhere until he saw her lean forward from the corner of his eye. He turned his head and watched as she placed her entire Herbology text into the fire. She stared dully at it as it lay in the green flames.

"I thought you were supposed to do it one page at a time," he said.

"I don't know if it really matters. My governess didn't say."

"Oh." They both stared into the fire. "But maybe you could've saved part of your mother's book if you'd done it a page at a time? Give her something to be happy about, yeah?"

"My mother's dead."

"Oh."

Pansy tossed the empty, crumpled wrapper into the fire, and it flared for a moment, giving off a trail of dark smoke, and then she crawled back to their pallet and curled into a ball on her side, and closed her eyes, and while Ron remained sitting for several moments longer, he shortly concluded that there was no point in watching the fire burn itself closer to being out, and retreated to where she lay, Methuselah in tow.

---

He didn't know how much time passed from then on, but it was not without trepidation when he eventually awoke and there was no greenish glowing light filtering in through the needle holes in the seams of his cloak, and his heart sank as he realised the fire had finally burned itself out. A creeping chill was settling in, seeping in and under the folds of his cloak to surround them.

He prodded Pansy. "Turn around," he said, noticing she was shivering again. She did so without speaking, and curled into him. Ron lit his wand with the spell Pansy had used when they'd first come into the cave -- Incendium -- and he positioned his wand under their chins, and he closed his eyes and finally put his arms around her to increase their mutual body heat, and pulled her tight against him. Their breath rebounded back and forth, and Ron thought of dragons and quilts and tea, and let himself slip back into the blissful unconsciousness of a dreamless sleep.

---

He remembered references to the white light from Divination, so when it flared, jolting him from the unaware sanctuary in his mind, a peaceful feeling rolled over him. So this is what it's like to die, he thought. He squinted into the light and suddenly Dumbledore's face was swimming in front of him. How grand! Dumbledore'd come to see him off at the pearly gates . . . but, wait. -Snape's- face replaced Dumbledore's and Ron's gut clenched. "Oh, come -on-," he groaned. "I haven't been that much of an arsehole." Snape's presence proved it -- he was going to Hell. It must've been that bit with Pansy's hand that tipped the scale out of his favour. "It was just the one time!" he objected, pleading with any Afterlifely Powers That Be, who might be lending an ear at the moment. "I knew I was dying, yeah?"

"Ron." It was Dumbledore's voice again, even though Snape's face was still floating grudgingly in front of him.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, reaching out. "I'm sorry . . . "

"Ron."

"I'm sorry," Ron repeated, moaning rather incoherently. "Don't send me t'hell with Snape!"

"As much as I'd cherish the opportunity to escort you to the lift, Mr. Weasley," Snape's low drawl cut through Ron's mental fog, "I must instead join in with the general elation at the obvious evidence of your continued existence amongst us."

Ron opened his eyes fully, blinking painfully; there was light everywhere, and he could hear people bustling around.

"--take her now--"

"--portkey's ready?"

"--won't work in here. Take her outside--"

"Ron, can you hold onto my wrist?" It was Dumbledore, and Ron was flooded with relief.

"Yeah," he said, reaching blindly for the headmaster's hand. "Yeah."

"Severus, do you have Miss Parkinson safely?"

"Yes," Snape said, and then Ron assumed his next words were directed at Pansy herself. "Come on, girl." He heard a patting noise, and figured that Snape was tapping at her cheeks, trying to rouse her. "Pansy. Come on, girl, come back--" He was blasted awake by the frigid air hanging outside as he was assisted outside, and he couldn't keep his eyes open as they stumbled away from the cave. Then, the telltale tug behind his bellybutton signaled they were portkeying, and the oddly-timed thought that he had never heard Snape call a student by his or her first name crossed his mind, and then there was a whirling sensation, and he drifted back into the comfortable darkness once again.