Adjudication

Desperate Guys

"How the bloody hell'd this happen?" Ron asked finally. He'd managed to seat her at the small, square table in the corner of the holding cell, and now she was huddled on a small white stool, her heels resting on one of its brackets. She was rubbing at her right wrist with her left hand, her fingers circling the red bruising there. Again he noted her limp, stringy hair, and her mussed appearance. "Fuck, Pansy, when's the last time you had a bath?"

"There's no baths here." Finally, she spoke, and Ron was relieved. She stretched her arm across the cold metal top of the table. "See that?" Pansy asked, her eyes shining with some kind of emotion Ron couldn't quite place. She pointed to a circular bruise on the inside of her forearm; it was reddish brown, with dotted hemorhages around its border. "Draco did that."

"Malfoy hit you?"

She shook her head, managing a withering look. "No, of course not. He did it with his mouth." She ran her fingers over the spot, and Ron realised it was a lovebite. He flicked his gaze to her face again, waiting for her to continue. "When they took me to the Wizengamot day before yesterday, he reached out and grabbed me through the bars, and he did it before the guards could stop him." She looked at him for quite a long time. "When it fades, then what? When this is gone, what will I have left?"

Ron didn't know how to answer this. He dropped his gaze to the tabletop, tapping the nib end of the quill against it, feeling awkward.

"Do you think maybe he's gone somewhere?" she asked, her voice suddenly small and hollow, and when Ron looked up again at her question, he thought he detected a spark of desperate hope in her eyes.

"No," he said, as gently as he could, trying to push aside his considerable personal distaste for Draco Malfoy in the face of her grief.

The faint glimmer in her eyes died. "Maybe . . . maybe they've just taken him somewhere? Maybe, it's all an elaborate ploy . . . "

"He's dead, Pansy." It came out much more forcefully than he'd intended, but goddamn it if he wasn't hacked off at her. "Now tell me how the sod you ended up in Azkaban?"

She swayed slightly on the stool, back and forth, as if she were rocking herself, holding her forearm with one hand and brushing the pad of her thumb over the last mark Malfoy would ever leave on her. "I always said--" Her voice broke and she took a shuddering breath. "I always told Draco that I was born early so I could love him first . . . " She looked at him again and Ron immediately understood that she was terrified, broken. "How am I supposed to go on? I've never been without him! He's always been there . . . we've always been!" She was weeping again, bitterly. "I want to die! I want to die . . . Why couldn't have I died too?" she sobbed rawly. "He's my best friend . . . my everything . . . Oh God . . . . how can this be?!"

Ron crossed his arms over his chest, frustrated and momentarily feeling out of his element, wondering how in God's name he was going to entice Pansy with the possibility of a full pardon on behalf of the Ministry if only she'd supply them with information, when it was clear to him she had absolutely no reason to live. Or rather, she believed that to be so.

"Help me die," she cried, low and devastated. "Please, Ron?"

"Shite!" he said, vaguely offended at the suggestion. "That'd be a definite no."

She had snot running down her lip again, and her left eye was only half-open, puffy and red from the infection raging there. "You're an Auror, you can use Avada Kedavra and you won't be tossed up on charges -- I know it! My father was never disciplined for--"

Ron rubbed at his temples wearily. "I am not fucking killing you, Pansy."

"You selfish son-of-a-bitch," she hissed, rising. She planted her hands on the tabletop with a sharp slapping sound. "You don't care about me! You're here for information, that's all!" She narrowed her eyes dangerously. "And I'm not telling you Jack. Shite. Get that? Nothing. Nada. So you can just get the fuck out--"

"Would you put a cork in it already, Parkinson?" Ron was unimpressed by her theatrics. "Just sit down."

"No!"

"Fine, stand. Whatever," he said, holding her gaze. "Doesn't matter. Yeah," he continued, "I want information from you. And I'll get it, one way or another. Right now you may think you want to die and, well, fine. But don't be stupid. You might not always want to die, and I've license to offer you a free ticket. Interested?"

"No."

"You're lying," Ron said smoothly. "You know how I know? Because I know you. And you aren't stupid, as much as I've wished you daft over the years. Oh, no -- you're clever, you're resourceful, and you're all about options. You always have been." He pushed away from the table and stood; rounding it, he planted himself in front of her, imposing and professional. "For once in your sodding miserable existence make an informed choice, Parkinson! Being impetuous has never gotten you ahead." He jerked his chin at her imperiously. "Just look at you."

She stared at the floor, her anger abating, and Ron had the momentary vision of a long, skinny balloon chasing itself through the air with a drawn-out squeak, let go to deflate from a disinterested hand like a puttering bladder. "I've no need for options anymore," she said simply.

Ron jabbed his finger into the crown of her head, forcing her to look up at him. "Bullfuckingshite," he said tightly, trying to will the seriousness of the situation into her thick head. "If you really believed that, you'd have offed yourself already, even if it'd meant chewing through your own fucking veins with your teeth. So, bullshite, Pansy!" He eased around her and leaned in from the back, and whispered into her ear as he circled around her casually. "So what is it? Why haven't you offed yourself already, hmm?" She met his eyes as he spoke, and he zeroed in on her. "You've unfinished business, don't you?" She stared at him defiantly, her jaw set, but Ron knew he'd hit paydirt when her eyes filled again. "Well, I think that's enough for today," he said, surprised he wasn't feeling triumphant. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Fuck you," she spat. "I won't be here tomorrow. You've given me a brilliant idea, so thanks for that," she finished petulantly. Ron held up his hand.

"You'll be here," he said, turning his back on her, which he knew she hated. Swiftly he strode the length of the cell and pushed the buzzer to summon the guards. "I'll bring you something."

"I don't want anything from you!"

"I guess we'll just wait and see, yeah?"

"Get out!"

"See you tomorrow, Parkinson."

Was it more than attraction or a physical lust?
Her loins, my imagination
that first inconceivable touch
That I was planning, uh . . .
I mean wishing, uh . . .
How embarrassed I’d have been if you knew what I was thinking . . .

Close to you, wishing we’re conjoined at the tongue
Can you hear me thinking? I should stop
I crossed my fingers, but I didn’t beg
Cause I knew you knew
Cause I knew you knew I liked you
I knew you knew I liked you
I knew you knew it
But I figured desperate guys
never had a chance with you . . .

- - -

Ron's eyes cracked open, and the first thing he sensed was that he was warm -- so very, perfectly warm. Warm as in toasty, warm as in waking up under a pile of feather duvets in his room in the Burrow, with his thickest socks over his feet and wearing his favourite shorts and a plain old cotton tee. That kind of warm, yeah. Hot skin warm. The golden afternoon light filtered in through his lashes, and before he opened them fully he said a prayer to himself: Please don't let me be dead. I've too much yet to do . . . He blinked his eyes open, his vision fuzzy for a moment before a billowing white wall came into focus. His heart sunk. I've died, he thought bitterly. I got -that- far, and I fucking -died-? He blinked again, and was filled with the realisation that he was staring at the dividing curtains in the hospital wing, and not at any heavenly clouds, and as the knowledge blossomed through him fully, Ron's heart swelled with joy. Eagerly he pushed up, shoving the duvets down to his lap.

Hermione was asleep at the foot of his bed, seated in a chair; however, she'd slumped over and the top half of her body was sprawled across the foot of his hospital cot. It was quite possibly the most uncomfortable sleeping position she could have possibly achieved, and Ron laughed outloud at the beautiful sight of her, wanting to pull her up and simultaneously kiss her, hug her, cling to her like a dumb baby, fuck her, and thoughtfully discuss N.E.W.T.s. Carefully he reached out and touched her shoulder.

"Hermione!" he whispered joyously.

"Hmm?" She shot up like a cork released underwater, her eyes flying open, and when she realised it was him she practically tackled him from the bed to the floor as she launched herself at him, her arms tightening vice-like around his neck. Quietly she sobbed into the crook of his neck, and for many, many years after, Ron would remember it as the only time he could actively recall not feeling awkward in the presence of an emotional female. Automatically he hugged her in return, rubbing his hand soothingly down her back.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed, with abandon. "I'm so sorry, Ron. I'm so sorry--"

"Shh!" he said, shaking his head, shushing her. "Shh, it's okay. Nothing to be sorry for, yeah?"

"I shouldn't have made you go after her!" she continued, deeply distraught. Ron knew Hermione well enough to imagine the mental torture she'd been putting herself through.

"No, don't," he said. "It doesn't matter. I'm okay." He reluctantly pried her away, looking down into her face, which was shiny with tears. "I'm okay, Hermione. It's okay." She took in a deep, shuddering breath and released it slowly. When Ron looked down he saw that her hands were trembling. Impulsively he clasped them in his own and immediately felt self-conscious; however, he didn't want to let go. He never wanted to let go. But what to say? He didn't rightly know, so instead he squeezed her affectionately, and then let her hands down. "I'm fine," he repeated assuringly. "A few nights in a cave isn't going to kill me anytime soon, right?"

Hermione gazed at him seriously, a queer expression crossing her face. "A few nights? Ron, you were lost for seven days!"

He boggled. "What?"

"We thought you'd died!" Hermione twisted the sleeve of her jumper fretfully. "Well, we knew you hadn't died, but when your hand moved to 'Mortal Peril' . . . " She shuddered at the memory.

"You monitored me with the clock?"

"Yes. Dumbledore had the firechat open to the Burrow for an entire week. Harry and I practically slept in his office while you were gone, and then when your Mum called up, shrieking that you were in mortal peril, that's when Dumbledore decided he couldn't wait anymore."

"What about Parkinson?"

"What about her?" Hermione's brow furrowed questioningly.

"Who was monitoring her?"

She shrugged. "I've no idea, to be honest, but Malfoy went out into the blizzard after her. Him and Blaise Zabini. Blaise came back, but Draco was lost."

"Malfoy's dead?" Sweet mother of Merlin, thank bloody -God-.

Hermione tutted. "Of course not, Ron! Shockingly, he rubbed his two whole brain cells together and managed to dig himself a snow cave. Snape found him after only one night."

"How'd Snape find Malfoy, but not Pansy?"

"I've really no idea," she said coolly. "Nor do I care. I wasn't concerned about Malfoy or Parkinson."

His heart warmed slightly. "No?" he asked, a smile teasing at his lips.

She shook her head vehemently. "Not a whit. Unfortunately, they're both tenacious like roaches. Nothing could kill them."

He ran his finger down the side of her pinkie. "Hermione? Stay with me, would you?"

She looked at him as if he were daft. "Of course I'm staying."

He smiled fully. "Brilliant."

---

This time he didn't dream of Hermione at all. No, this time he dreamt only of Pansy. He couldn't see her, but he knew it was her, for she smelt of lemon verbena, which was fresh and clean -- a fine juxtaposition indeed, for Pansy Parkinson was neither fresh nor clean, in a way that had nothing to do with her bathing rituals, which, from the way the ruddy bint routinely hogged the prefect's bath, Ron knew to be quite frequent. He inhaled her scent and buried his nose in her hair, and the wind howled through his mind, shrieking and bitter cold.

But -she- wasn't cold.

"Where are you?" he muttered impatiently, and she turned her head slightly; he licked right into the little groove where her earlobe into her face, and reached around for her hand again, wrenching it to his crotch, which was actually rather awkward as her back was to him. Her fingers curled around his--

"Weasley?" It was only a whisper, but it shocked him awake. Lemon verbena. He rolled sideways slightly, looking, and felt her warm body next to his.

"Wha-" He gave his head a slight shake, and turned over completely. "What are you doing?"

He was still in the hospital wing; it was dark, but Madam Pomfrey always left a tiny light burning aside the bed for her patients. Ron struggled to sit up, suddenly filled with panic that Hermione was going to witness this . . . whatever this was . . . but he quickly soothed himself with the recollection that Hermione had returned to Gryffindor Tower to sleep, never mind the notion that he wasn't doing anything wrong!

Right? Right.

Pansy was considering him through the dim light, her dark eyes glittering and alert and calm, and it was this last vestige of humanness that gave him greatest pause. Slowly he hunkered down again, bunching up his pillow under the side of his head, and gazed back at her warily. Her demeanour was different, and he didn't know if it was because it was in the middle of the night, or if being in the hospital wing was an neutral territory or sorts, but he didn't fear her at that moment, or feel even a vague sense of trepidation, even though she was in his bed with him, and had slid under the covers and was so close he could feel her breath on his chin. "What do you want?" he asked, still whispering even though there were no other students in hospital at that time.

She reached out and trailed her fingers up his arm, once. "Thank you," she said.

"Excuse me?" Ron stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it hard, sure he'd misunderstood.

"I said thank you."

"Er-"

"Thank you for saving my life," she whispered sincerely, eerily serene.

Ron was momentarily convinced Pansy might turn into a flesh-eating zombie at any moment and gnaw his fingers off. "Who are you really?" It might have been a bit harsh on his part, but he couldn't help himself.

"It's me, you great ruddy arse!" She brought her hand up again, this time clutching her wand. She tapped it against his forehead without any explanation. "Vita Novatio." A warm feeling immediately spread through his face and down through his body.

He knew what it was -- a Life Debt. Stunned, he stared at her, not knowing what to say. Should he thank her, even though it was he who had rescued her? What did one do in the face of an archaic tradition such as the Vita Novatio spell? She'd bound them together on a single, random foundation, one which was magically locked into place until he collected the Life Debt back from her formally. "Why did you do that?" he asked, incredulous.

She smiled slightly, her eyes fleetingly impish. "Because I'm fucking fantastic, Weasley, a fact which deserves official commendation." Her fingers were fluttering at his arm again, up and down, up and down, and it was weird and satisfying and not sexual at all, and maybe the fact that Ron found himself awash in her lack of predation at that moment, her normalcy, her sincerity, was why he impulsively leaned in to kiss her, a great swelling feeling rising inside him.

He caught himself just in time, and turned his head quickly as the realisation of what he was about to do shot through him, and as he did so his bottom lip brushed over her top one accidentally, and then his heart was hammering in his chest -- mostly because he was panicking at the hugely fucked up idea that he desperately wanted to suck her tongue right into his mouth, but also because, well, for a split second he really, really wanted to do more than that with her, and what the fuck was up with that? Everything shifted, just like that -- it took perhaps three seconds. And now here he was, his chin resting against the soft side of her mouth, her breath so hot against his nose, and he realised she was wearing only a plain cotton nightgown and the reason he realised this was because he found he was inexplicably running his hand down her back and over the rise of her arse and down the back of her thigh, and up again, and there were no rises or bumps of undergarments underneath his fingertips that he could tell.

"What is today?" she asked, the breezy staccato puffs of her sweet breath filling his senses as she whispered to him.

"Um . . . " Why wasn't his hand stopping? He wracked his brain, thinking back over what Hermione had filled him in on. "Wednesday?"

"Okay," she said, almost in a relieved tone. "Wednesday. Okay. Wednesday. Got it." And she slipped her leg between his and scootched against him, and wrapped her arms around him tightly, and tipped her face up to look at him.

Ron was stunned. Shite, he thought, his panic increasing with a cold flush. Shite, shite, bugger shite. "Um-"

"Shh . . . "

He was painfully hard. Her thigh was wedged tightly against the underside of his erection, and he wanted to move against her until he came, and he noticed again that his chin was on her face. Fumbling, he reached down and pulled the wand she still held out of her hand and placed it up by the pillow, and when he brought his arm down again he had to pretend to accidentally catch her hair in his fingers because he didn't know how to outright do what he wanted. He had to pretend it was accidental, an unintended slight of hand, because there was no possible way he could admit to himself that his arousal was real, and it was specific to her, and bloody Hell if he knew why.

It was surreal, yeah. Tentatively he tucked his hand around her arse, pulling her closer, and he rocked against her thigh, grinding into her, but then stopped, his eyes closing in embarrassment and shame. He swallowed thickly; his body was on fire again, and he just wanted to strike out and explode in a great, giant, frenetic orgasm -- into a million ginger bits. "No," he croaked, his mouth dry.

"Shh." She hushed him again and turned her head until her lips brushed over his with a feathery pass, and silently he squirmed against her once more, pretending he was just shifting positions, rather than trying to fuck her thigh, and he breathed hot and heavy into her mouth as she pressed her leg up against him again, and he wasn't even sure how it happened, but he suddenly found he was sucking on her bottom lip and she made a strange noise in her throat.

"Oh," Ron groaned, releasing her lip with a tiny *pop*. "I can't do this." Pansy didn't answer him; her face was flushed and hot looking. "Stop," he managed, slowing his movements.

"I know what you did in the cave," she whispered back, clutching at him tightly. "With me." Ron considered her silently, not wanting to tip his hand. She looked at him questioningly, almost with a sense of wonder, and he didn't know what to think about this news at all. Did it matter what he'd done on the brink of death? Was that why she was here? Was she collecting?

"Right," he said, noncommittally, eyeing her. "Sure. Like you'd've really let that happen." He groaned inwardly at his stupidity as he realised he'd inadvertently confessed to her, but she refrained from ripping him a new arsehole.

"So, it did happen." Pansy slid her fingers down the smooth plane of his stomach and slipped it into his shorts with one fluid movement, and Ron sucked in his breath sharply as her nimble fingers tightened around him. "It wasn't a dream . . ."

"No," he warned her, plunging in after her. He wrapped his hand around hers, meaning to pull it free, but then she squeezed and stroked him in just the right way with an oddly fumbling and unlearned touch which surprised him quite a lot, and Ron relaxed his grip for several moments, all semblance of reason effectively obliterated in that instance. "No," he managed again, really meaning it this time, and he pulled her hand out from his shorts as he kicked at the covers. "Shite," he gasped frantically, sitting up on the side of the bed. "Turn around," he ordered gruffly, planting his feet firmly on the ground and dropping his head into his hands. The lust coursing through him scared him; it was utterly intoxicating, despite his best intentions. Why? he thought miserably. Why Why Why? He turned back to look at her, nicking his pillow from the head of his bed and covering his crotch. "Parkinson?"

Pansy was staring at him, still tangled up in the white infirmary blankets. "What?" she asked haughtily, as if it were perfectly natural that she'd be clambering to wank him off in the hospital wing.

"I--"

"You what?" She was on her knees now, inching forward. He felt the cool flutter of her fingers at his elbow, just for a moment.

"Stop touching me."

She peeked around him, beguiling and very much pushing her luck. "You like it, though!"

Ron wanted to hit something. "Fuck, that doesn't matter!" he exploded, turning so quickly that Pansy had to sit back on her haunches just to retain her balance. "Fucking get away from me! You-- you're -- you-- What about Malfoy, for sod's sake!?" She peered at him curiously, not answering, and he stood, still keeping the pillow to the front of his shorts; with his other hand he gestured incredulously, hissing at her, "Right, then. You think a secret wank's a fair trade for your life? You're a cheap bitch, you know that? I could do it better myself!"

Pansy remained calm in the face of his accusation, and as he stared down into her funny little face it occurred to Ron that if anyone was used to sloughing off disparaging comments, it would be Pansy Parkinson, and she confirmed his assessment quite nicely forthwith. "You didn't like it?" Her brow furrowed, as if she'd not considered this possibility.

"It's not about that!" Ron was genuinely pissed now. "Are you mental? It's me -- The Weasel! You know, the bloke you wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole even if he were the last sod on the face of the earth? Besides, you've shagged Malfoy, which is fucking disgusting, thanks, and you're funny-looking and cross and you smell like lemons, and your shoes look like they're for dolls, and you're a Slytherin for fuck's sake-" In his vehemence he let the pillow fall; glancing down he saw his shorts were still tented. "-fucking shite, fucking pillow!" He nicked it from the ground. "And-and--what the sod are you thinking?" He glared at her, daring her to question his outrage.

She pulled a confused face. "Thinking?" she asked slowly, as if she were savouring the word on her tongue. "Nothing profound." She looked at him. "I just wanted to. That's all."

He boggled. "You just wanted to?"

"You wanted to too," she said simply, and it was true.

"I did no--No, I didn't!" He gesticulated wildly, affronted by her self-centredness. "You can't just always do what you want!"

"Why not?"

"You know what? You're the dumbest bird this side of the brain nest, Parkinson! You--you just can't! Normal people don't, you know, always put themselves first." He sighed heavily and sunk to the edge of the bed opposite his own and glared at her from across the way; Madam Pomfrey had removed the dividing screen between the two cots when Hermione had been there.

She was looking at him as if she were really seeing him for the first time ever. "Normal is subjective," she said hotly, and Ron was reminded of something Harry'd passed along to him the summer after fifth year: Slytherins are brave, but not stupid; they will always choose to save their own necks.

"You disgust me, you know that?" He meant it, too.

Pansy shrugged, unflinching. "You disgust me more than I could ever disgust you!"

He snorted. "Doubt that. Seriously."

"Oh, you definitely do," she said, her face hardening slightly. She extricated herself from the tangle of bedsheets and came around the bed to stand in front of him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Right," Ron said, incredulous. "In that case, what should have been my first clue, huh? You wanking my dick?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Don't be crass." She tilted her head at him studiously. "Here's what I know about you, Weasley. You're so easy to read, did you know? You fancy Granger something awful, am I right? God knows why, as she's swotty as all get out." Pansy lifted her chin, staring down at him. "It really hacks you off whenever anyone sings Weasley is My King, although you pretend not to care. You're mediocre at Quidditch and brilliant at Charms and Transfiguration. You fought with Potter fourth year and you've never forgotten it, and I'm willing to wager it was your fault, and you were being a jealous prick. Am I right again? Do you have a strange relationship with your best mate, then?"

He stood, also crossing his arms, until he was peering down at her; he was prickling on the inside -- how the sod did she know all this? What a bitch. "You don't know anything," he huffed, tapping his foot impatiently. Glancing sideways, he couldn't stand it. "How'd you know that?" He couldn't help asking -- he was just that sort. Was she watching him? Observing? If so . . . holy shite, why? "Parkinson, are you spying on me?"

"So you admit it!"

"Oh sod off," he said, brushing past her. Tossing his pillow angrily at the headboard he climbed into bed, having had quite enough. "I admit nothing!"

"You don't have to," she said, mocking him. "You're an open book."

He turned his back to her and yanked his duvet over his shoulders until only his hair was showing against the pillow. He tried unsuccessfully to ignore her, but her silence was oppressive behind him, and he had reached the point where he just wanted her to leave. "Go back to bed," he barked sullenly.

"Actually, I just traded Jack Sloper a bottle of aged Firewhiskey for a few choice tidbits on you," Pansy said, her voice growing closer. "But he had to make them good ones. Surely you don't think I'd waste my own time surveilling you, do you?"

"Sloper?" Ron sat up, taking umbrage. "That fucking git! I always knew he was dodgy." He laid back again, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Look, whatever. I'm tired, and the only thing I want right now is to toast up under these covers, yeah?"

She paused by his bedside; from where he lay Ron could see the vaguest outline of her shape through her white cotton nightdress, her dark hair a vivid contrast against the filmy material. "You can-" She took great pause. "You can have it."

Something about her tone made Ron question the face value of her comment, and his response hung unspoken between them: Have what . . . ? "Thanks ever so much for your permission, Parkinson," he said, squeezing his temples between his thumb and forefinger, taking the opportunity to avert his gaze. "Sloper said that about me and Quidditch? What the sod?"

She rolled her eyes slightly. "To be honest, I didn't have to pry that little tidbit out of him," she said waspishly. "I've seen you play myself."

That was definitely enough. "Sod off, Pansy," Ron said wearily, once again turning his back on her and pulling the covers up over his head. "I don't want anything from you."

"You can always change your mind."

Ron ignored this. The infirmary was suddenly quite still and the only indication of Pansy's retreat was the soft slapping sound of one barefooted step on the tiled floor as she made her way toward the girls' side. "Weasley?"

"What?" he said, in a clipped tone, wishing she'd just go away.

"I meant it when I said thank you."

"Fine."

"I mean--"

"I heard you, so fucking drop it."

"It's not something I offer frequently."

"What, am I supposed to be fucking flattered?"

"Spot on."

Ron heard the sound of her covers rustling, and it was soon apparently she wasn't going to say anything more. He turned over and wallowed in dark thoughts, sleep not overcoming him until the purplish light of dawn was filling the hospital wing.

---

"Seamus?"

Seamus Finnigan was dutifully revising Arithmancy when Ron interrupted his studies. Carefully, he finished reading the page he was on before looking up. "Yeah?" Ron sat on the side of his bed, much like he had several days earlier while in hospital, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin cupped in his hand. He'd loosened his tie haphazardly and rolled his sleeves up. Seamus took pause. "What is it, mate? You all right?"

"Yeah," Ron said, his face troubled and dark. "Um--how's it . . . you know."

"Huh?"

"You know," Ron prompted him, blushing slightly. "How're things?"

"Things?" Seamus was totally confused as he considered his roommate. "What things?"

"You know," Ron repeated, glancing about to ensure they were alone in the room. "Things."

"Things. OH!" Seamus said, realisation blossoming. "Did y'have a question about a bird, then?"

Ron was the colour of a beet. "Er--"

"Lav's not said anything recently about Hermione, I'm afraid. 'Fraid I don't have any news for you in that regard."

"What do you do when you, you know, have that thing--those, you know, you feel that way--"

"A wank in the loo not cutting it anymore?" Seamus waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Ron.

"I'm fucking serious!"

"Well," he drew the word out. "I reckon I take a trot over t'the girls staircase and yell for Lav, and then we go somewhere. But . . . that's not exactly applicable t'you, is it?"

"Not exactly," Ron said glumly, sighing.

"There's always Hannah," Seamus observed, not unkindly.

"Yeah." Ron's face darkened again. "I know. But . . . "

"But what?"

Ron stared at the rug between his and Seamus's beds. "Reckon maybe . . . can you really fancy someone, but also fancy someone else besides? In a different way? I mean, that's okay, yeah?" He couldn't believe he was even asking the question, and the horror of the moment threatened to drive him to the Floo to make an emergency appointment with St. Mungo's. Mortified, he lay down on his bed and stared up into his crimson canopies, thankful not to watch Seamus's reaction to his egregious suggestion. "But not in the same way! Fancying, I mean. Not fancying one girl like the other, because there's no comparison really . . . ." He trailed off.

The corner of Seamus's lips twitched. "Who is it, mate? Parvati? Lovegood? Turpin? Turpin's bloody hot--"

"It's not Lisa," Ron said. "Shite, I reckon it doesn't matter really. S'not something I'd--" He searched for the right word. "--do."

Ever since that night in hospital, Ron'd been obsessed with what Pansy had done to him, both mentally and physically. It'd been pure bliss to be back in Gryffindor tower, a full ten days after the fateful blizzard had hit, and the first night he'd been back had been bloody marvelous -- Gryffindor'd thrown him a wicked party to welcome him back, and even McGonagall had turned out for a tick. It had been a warm and raucous affair, and when he'd poured himself into his bed afterward -- his bed -- he'd been on the best mental high he could remember in quite a long time. Harry'd come over to lounge on his bed and had read him the sleazy personal ads from the back of the Daily Prophet, and it had been so normal, and Voldemort had seemed so far away, on the backburner really. Already the memory of that night had become Patronus-worthy as far as Ron was concerned. When he'd slipped his hand into his pyjama trousers in the dark, once the dorm had quieted and he was secure behind the privacy of his canopies, he'd sunk blissfully into his very favourite Fucking Hermione scenario as he'd stroked himself, warm and comfortable and home, and all was well as he blithely jerked himself off -- merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a-- the intrusive thoughts had invaded right about here, bloody fabulous -- Hermione. Snogging Hermione. Watching Hermione starkers. Oh -fuck- he thought she was so fantastic with her brilliant hair, and her swotty attitude, and her amazing brain, and her take-charge, take-no-shite attitude. Sometimes the things Hermione -said- were hotter than anything else, and sometimes he got hard just listening to her in class, and sometimes Pansy's hair was shiny. Ron grimaced. What the fuck? Excuse me, dick? I ruddy well don't think so, Ron had objected to himself privately as Pansy's face had blossomed in his imagination, squeezing himself with a practised touch and closing his eyes. Stubbornly he returned his attention to Hermione. Oh yeah, there was the Quidditch uniform again, and Hermione looked bloody fantastic and he knew once they started kissing they'd never stop, and he could wind one of her crazy curls around his finger, and--

--life is but a dream. Suck it, Pansy, please? Malfoy's voice echoed in his head. "Oh, fuck!" Ron came violently and totally unexpectedly up his chest with a thick shudder, and he was so awash in the sensation that he wasn't capable of even a bit of embarrassment when his roommates erupted into laughter at his -- literal -- outburst.

"Mmm, how was Hermione tonight, Ron?" Dean had teased from across the way.

"Your bollocks finally unfreeze, then?" Neville said, a very bold statement from him indeed. Every once and a while Neville would surprise them all with a pervy comment which completely went against his usual character. Ron had always figured if anyone was secretly wanking like a sick freak in their dormitory, it definitely had to be Neville.

"Shite," Ron groaned, put off by the mess on his chest and belly. "Sorry, then. Right."

"My turn, mate," Seamus had called out. "Oh yeah, here I go, mmhmm . . . "

"Me too!" Dean interjected. "Yeah, yeah, oh yeah, I'm quite clearly seeing Daphne Greengrass here."

"She's a Slytherin!" Neville objected vehemently.

"Put a cork in it, Longbottom!" Dean had said, laughing. "Wank off to Eloise Midgen if it makes you the better person. All right, then, Ron?"

"'S'pose it's good it still works," he said sheepishly, turning over onto his belly, using the bedsheets to clean up. "Sorry 'bout that. Keeping you awake and whatnot."

"Night, Ron," Harry said sleepily. "Good thing you're back, mate."

"Yeah." Ron couldn't help but agree. "Definitely. Night, Harry."

That night he'd chalked it up to the experience he'd just survived, and figured he'd been suffering a touch of post-trauma or something.

"Just be sure you don't have Stockholm Syndrome," Hermione had ribbed him the night before, in the common room.

"Stockholm Syndrome?" he'd asked, unversed.

"It's the name of a post-traumatic syndrome," she'd clarified. "A gang of criminals held up a Muggle bank in Stockholm, Sweden, and kept hostages for several days." She paused to make a notation in the margin of her Arithmancy text. "When the police managed to free the hostages they found they were sympathetic to their captors. Isn't that the oddest thing?"

He nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Weird, that. Bollocks, really."

She threw a lopsided grin his way. "Just so you don't start going on and on about Parkinson's fluffy side."

Ron snorted. "Trust me. She doesn't have a fluffy side. That bint's fanny's likely sprouting steel wool or somesuch!" He eyed Hermione after this particular outburst. "Sorry."

"That's quite an unpleasant visual, Ronald," she'd clucked, her cheeks reddening slightly as she returned her attention to her book. "Not to mention," she continued, after several moments, speaking tentatively, "quite physically uncomfortable, I would imagine." She glanced sideways at him. "Itchy."

His eyebrows had shot up and he felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Hermione had just admitted she had . . . pubic hair! "Erm?" He fumbled around mentally for an appropriate response.

"Anyhow," she'd continued briskly, her blush abating, "you're back, you're safe, and we need never speak of it again."

"Too right." And the dreams of Pansy had continued, and the thoughts of her, and he turned over what she'd done to him in his mind over and again, unable to keep from wallowing in the heady, hot rush of the memory.

The fact was he didn't have such memories with Hermione. It wasn't by his choice, of course, but still. That's how things were. Hermione'd never touched his body, never reached into his trousers, had never run her hands through his hair, or puffed her hot breath against the skin of his neck when they'd broken away from a kiss, and it was so fucking hard to wait. Ron longed for Hermione more than anything, but he understood the current limitation. Yet, he was almost eighteen years old -- everything made him randy. Everything.

So could he really blame his ruddy blasphemous brain for jaunting elsewhere, while Hermione wasn't available? Maybe. He didn't know. Which was why he was here, talking to Seamus right now.

"Oh yeah? Who'd'you want t'do?" Seamus had no shame.

Ron didn't answer, but rather contemplated his curtains sullenly.

"I don't think, though," Seamus mused a few moments later, "that Hermione expects you to be a bloody monk."

"I just never thought--" He tried to put it into words adequately. "I just didn't think it was possible to feel-- to want--"

"Mate, I've wanked off to practically every girl in this fucking castle. There's nothing wrong with you."

"But what about Lavender?" Ron asked, curious.

"I said I'd wanked off to all those other girls, not that I'd shagged 'em," Seamus clarified, considering Ron seriously. "But that's different than you and Hermione."

"Why's that?" Ron felt a bit defensive, as if Seamus were questioning his loyalty; he knew this was an irrational reaction on his part, so he squelched the urge to go on.

"Well, you know. Lav's my girlfriend. Hermione's not your girlfriend." Seamus took care to be exact with his words. "Yet. Someday, yeah, she will be. But right now she's not. You don't have that kind of thing between you."

But I feel like I do. The thought welled forth automatically. That's how I feel about her. "Yeah," was all he could muster.

"Ron? You almost died, mate." Seamus opened up his Arithmancy text again and found where he'd left off. "Don't worry about things so much. If you want t'get shagged, bloody well get shagged!"

Yeah, Ron contemplated to himself as the scratch of Seamus's quill lulled him into a reflective mode, She asked me to wait for her. But she never asked me to wait for her -alone-. He grimaced. What the bloody hell was he thinking? I want to-- He couldn't even think the thought in conjunction with Pansy, but it was there, simmering, even as Ron forced the mantra of Not in a million years on a death march through his mind.

---

They'd been rescued on a Tuesday; by the following Monday, Ron was ready to return to his normal routine. He entered the Great Hall on Monday morning with Harry, Dean, Seamus, and Neville, and had flushed beet-red to the roots of his hair when the student body broke out in enthusiastic applause as he pushed through the massive double doors. Some even stood and whistled, and sparks were flying from the ends of quite a few wands. Seamus and Dean jerked their rucksacks forward, making like they each had a drum, and frog-marched Ron through the aisles bellowing Hail, the Conquering Hero at the top of their ruddy lungs, amongst the house tables -- studiously avoiding the Slytherins, of course -- and together lifted Ron over the bench into his usual seat at the Gryffindor table.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Not even close.

"Your attention, please." Dumbledore creaked to his feet at the front of the Great Hall; the early morning chatter died out immediately. "Thank you. I am pleased to welcome two of Hogwarts finest students back into our collective fold."

Ron froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. Fucking God, -no-. A lump of scrambled egg fell from his slackened mouth, and a vague memory of They come from a chicken's arse! flashed through his mind, and he unwittingly gagged his eggs back out onto his plate.

"Ron!" Hermione hissed, her eyes saucering. "Eww!"

"Sorry," he apologised, wiping at his lip with the back of his thumb. "Except not. Did you do this?" He jerked his head toward Dumbledore, who was readying himself to continue.

"What?" Hermione said defensively. "I think you should be commended, truth told!"

Ron slumped low on the bench. "Bloody hell, Hermione!"

"What?" She tossed her hair in that way that she did when a matter was settled in her mind. "Just listen to Dumbledore, would you?"

"Miss Pansy Parkinson . . . " Dumbledore beckoned toward the Slytherin table, clearly motioning for Pansy to join him at the front of the Great Hall. Pansy looked stunned, and didn't move until Daphne Greengrass elbowed her in the ribs. Reluctantly she stood, and made her way to where Dumbledore was standing; crossing her arms over her chest, she struck a bored pose, one hip thrust out, and openly contemplated the enchanted ceiling, which was robin's-egg blue that morning, without a single cloud in sight. As Dumbledore continued again, she rolled her eyes and began tapping her foot impatiently until Snape raised an eyebrow at her. Immediately she corrected herself and stood straight, but she didn't let her arms relax; Ron could see her dark gaze floating indifferently over the sea of faces.

" . . . and Mister Ronald Weasley." Ron's face flamed as he schlepped up to stand next to Pansy; he would have hidden behind Dumbledore, but the headmaster gestured for him to stand to the side, and he wasn't about to disrespect Dumbledore by blatantly defying a directive in front of the entire school. "Miss Parkinson is our senior prefect for Slytherin House, an accomplished student, and a potions protégé," Dumbledore stated calmly, lifting a hand amiably toward Pansy.

Ron glanced sideways at her. "Protégé?" he snorted under his breath. "Sheeyeah, right!"

"Fuck off, Weas--"

"And," Dumbledore's voice rose a notch as he gave Pansy a warning look, "Mister Ronald Weasley is also a senior prefect, a solid student, and a youth of exceptional integrity and tenacity. Both Miss Parkinson and Mr. Weasley managed to survive seven nights and eight days in the worst blizzard Scotland has seen in all my many years, through mutual cooperation, resourcefulness, and a thorough repertoire of survival skills -- some magical, some merely innovative and clever."

Ron had his hands stuffed into his pockets as deeply as he could manage and he was working at chink in the stone floor with the toe of his trainer. Please let it end. Please let it end. Please let it--

"For truly exceptional tenacity, fortitude, and logic employed under the most dire of circumstances, the Board of Governors and myself, as well as all the staff and your fellow prefects, wish to present each of you with an official award for Special Services to a Fellow Student." Dumbledore moved his fingers and a lovely plaque appeared there. He turned to Pansy. "For your exceptional knowledge of basic survival skills, as well as your impartment of a truly unique Sanskrit charm, I give to you, Pansy Parkinson, this commendation for your service to a fellow student in need." Ron glanced over again and found Pansy smiling genuinely as she accepted her award and hugged it to her chest.

"Thank you, Sir," she said breathlessly, looking down at its shiny plate face as her housemates called out to her: "Pan-zee! Pan-zee! Pan-zee!" Slytherin House was on its feet, although Ron figured they were conveniently forgetting exactly who it was that she had saved along with her own ruddy arse; he wasn't upset by this notion, as he desperately hoped Gryffindor wouldn't give him crap about saving Pansy herself. Ron and Pansy had saved each other, and now everybody would know. Ron shifted another resentful glance her way, rolling his eyes as he saw she was holding her award aloft for her housemates to see and undulating her hips playfully. Ruddy show off, he thought bitterly.

Dumbledore turned to Ron then. "And to you, Ronald Weasley, I give to you this commendation for your service to a fellow student in need. Well done, Mr. Weasley." Ron stared at the plaque in lieu of out into the faces of hundreds of spectators. Special Commendation on Behalf of the Board of Governors: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry -- there was the Gryffindor crest etched into the silver plate face -- For knowledge of first aid given freely to a fellow student in need. Underneath this declaration was one word: Hypothermia. A small paragraph followed: Hereby this acknowledges on 7 January through 14 January, 1998, Ronald Bilius Weasley of Gryffindor House did use exceptional skill and insight, and did save fellow student Pansy Pandora Parkinson from certain personal harm due to exposure to the elements, also known as Hypothermia, during the great Scottish blizzard of 1998. Ron looked up at Pansy.

"Pandora?" he snorted, stifling his laugh only due to polite deference to Dumbledore.

"Oh, yes, because Bilius just rolls off the tongue," Pansy quipped, waggling her fingers at Malfoy. "All three of your names suck!"

Dumbledore turned to him before he could protest. "Very well done, Ron," he said, motioning calmly toward the crowd of students. "And Miss Parkinson." Ron guessed the awards were over, and he couldn't scramble back to his seat fast enough.

---

Thankfully, Ron and Pansy weren't paired for prefect rounds the first week they were back, as the third week of the month was always designated for house partners. Parvati Patil had been appointed Gryffindor prefect when Hermione had been named Head Girl, and she was perfectly pleasant to patrol with. Ron'd always thought Parvati a bit of a ditz, owing to her affinity for Divination, but she showed herself to be reliable and organised as a prefect, even though she liked to subtly redecorate the castle as they did rounds. Ron had patiently answered her questions regarding The Great Blizzard -- as he had renamed it -- and had tried to describe Pansy's Sanskrit charm to her.

"Er, do you speak Sanskrit then, Parvati?" he asked, the thought occurring to him suddenly.

"No, not really," she'd answered, as she tossed dust-removal charms at the row of tapestries lining the third floor corridor they were currently passing through. "Padma does, though. Why?"

"Dunno. Just seemed an odd choice of a charm for Parkinson," he said. "It's so -- she's so--" He couldn't find the right word.

"White?" Parvati sniggered.

Ron flushed. "Er, yeah."

"Pansy," Parvati confided, her voice lowering, "had an ayah."

"An ayah?" He furrowed his brow questioningly.

"Ayahs are rarely employed these days," Parvati explained, "but they're from the days of the Indian British Empire." She looked at Ron knowingly. "Which wasn't exactly Britain's finest moment, right?"

"I guess." He really had no idea. "Well, what's an ayah then?"

"An ayah's an Indian governess, really. A lady's maid." Parvati paused to rearrange three suits of armour so the one holding the longer axe was in the middle. "Ayah's are Asian nursemaids."

Ron snorted. "Ruddy crap job Parkinson's ayah did, then. She's no lady, that bint!" Parvati burst into laughter. "What?" he said defensively. "Well, she's not!"

She gave him a wicked look. "Pansy's ayah was my mother," she said slyly, wiping at her eye with a delicate hand.

Ron died of embarrassment. "What? Oh, bloody hell, Parvati, I didn't mean--I'm sure your mother's a brilliant ayah, yeah--"

"No, no. It's quite all right!" She was still smiling. "Mother says she'd like to meet the person who could successfully manage Pansy Parkinson. She compares wrangling Pansy to trying to fully contain an irate octopus within a mesh bag!"

Ron laughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, ruddy well 'spect that might be right." He thought of what a difficult time he'd had with Pansy over the past two weeks. "Yeah," he reiterated. Curious, he couldn't help himself. "How'd your Mum get to be Pansy's . . . whatchumcallit again?"

"Ayah," Parvati repeated, shrugging. "I don't know, really. I expect she just applied for the position when Mr. Parkinson put out the word." They were lowering the lights now, flicking their wands expertly toward the wall sconces, putting the castle to sleep. "It was after Pansy's mother was killed. Of course Father was killed around the same time. Mother and Father had married against their families' wishes -- out of their castes, that is -- and when Father died, Mother had nowhere to go." Parvati shrugged matter-of-factly. "We needed to survive. The old, pureblooded families tend to cling to the outdated traditions such as ayahs and whatnot. My mother's a powerful witch, though."

Ron took pause. How was it they were less than six months from leaving Hogwarts and he was just now learning this about Parvati? "Really?" he asked, completely surprised.

"Yes," she affirmed. "We lived in the Parkinsons' manor until we all came to Hogwarts first year. After that, Mother took up residence in the guest house -- they've several people in their employ who live there, and Padma and I have our own rooms for the hols."

Ron stopped short. "Whoa," he said thickly. "You--what the sod--you live in Pansy's house?"

"No, silly!" she said, rolling her eyes slightly. "We live with our mother when we're not here. Our mother happens to live in the guest house of the Parkinson estate."

He shook his head, still unbelieving. "What? Seriously?"

Parvati looked at him quizzically. "What's the problem with that, Ron?" She seemed a tad defensive now. "It's a fine position for Mother. During the summer hols she still acts as Pansy's governess, and for Padma and me too! When we're not there, she helps Mr. Parkinson with Charms research."

He trailed after her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as something Pansy had said during their entrapment niggled at him. "What's he do anyway? Pan--Parkinson said he's--"

"Pansy said he's what?"

"Well, what is he?"

"He's an Auror," Parvati said.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Ron glowered. "What the sod?! How can anyone who spawned Pansy Parkinson be an Auror?" He felt utterly betrayed by the notion -- he liked his firmly entrenched stereotypes, thanks muchly. They worked perfectly fine for him.

"E.C. put in eighteen years at the Ministry. Now he consults. And does Charms research on the side."

"E.C.?"

"Edmund Clarence. Pansy's father."

"Parvati, that's right royally fucked up, yeah?"

She shrugged. "It's not so bad."

"How can you stand it?"

"It is what it is, Ron," she said patiently; they were coming up on the stairs again, signifying they had completed their sweep of the third floor.

"So . . . " He fumbled slightly, his ears growing hot. "So, you know Pan--Parkinson?"

"Yes. I do. So does Padma."

"You know her ruddy cousin, then, too?"

"Cousin?"

"Catherine?" Ron clarified. "With a 'C'?"

"I've not had the pleasure of meeting Miss Catherine." Parvati glanced sideways at him, a queer look on her pretty face. "If you know what I mean?"

"Lucky, that."

"Ron?" She seemed hesitant now.

"Yeah?"

Parvati was silent for a moment, and when she finally spoke, Ron had the distinct feeling she had changed subjects in mid-thought. "Pansy likes tarot."

"So?" He couldn't help sneering a touch.

Parvati was looking at him in a way that made him feel like she could see right into his soul, and that she somehow knew what he was thinking, feeling . . . what he was wanting. Flushing, Ron looked away; Parvati laid her hand on his forearm. "I've never done a tarot reading on Pansy that didn't turn up the High Priestess card, just so you know. Not a single time."

Ron looked at her, he hoped neutrally. He didn't know shite about tarot.

She seemed to understand he had no clue what she was talking about. Drawing her hand away, she continued. "It's extraordinary to pull the same card on any individual in a fixed pattern," she explained. "So that the High Priestess comes up every time for Pansy is probably what has kept me from offing her in her sleep all these years."

"What's it mean?"

She raised a slim eyebrow. "Oh, tsk! All the years you've openly mocked Lavender and I, and Divination," she said, grinning wickedly. "I shall say no more."

"Aww, come on, Parvati," Ron wheedled, knowing full well he couldn't ask Harry or Hermione about Divination-related questions.

She held up a hand as she turned away. "No, no! Mustn't spoil the surprise! I'll tell you this, though: it's very basic tarot information. You won't have a problem getting the answer to your question."

"Damnit, c'mon!"

"It's time to split up, Ron. What'll it be? Dungeons or the Great Hall?"

"Dungeons!" he snapped, without thinking. "Wait, maybe I'd rather--"

"Dungeons it is," she said breezily, heading toward the Great Hall. "I'll see you back at the tower, then. Ciao, Ron!"

"Bloody hell," he muttered to himself, sulking off toward the stairs leading down into the dungeons, drawing his wand. "Lumos."

---

The next day was Herbology, and Ron had trouble sleeping well. How would things be? Since the incident in the hospital wing, he'd been a perpetual ball of worry, a state that was largely driven by constant feelings of either nausea or extreme randiness, depending on how he was considering it at any given moment. So it was with a mixture of trepidation and . . . excitement? . . . anticipation, perhaps, that he shuffled into the greenhouse Tuesday morning.

Passing by the Slytherins clustered together, he couldn't help but sneak a glance at them. Pansy was perched on Malfoy's lap and he had his arms wrapped around her middle protectively as he rested his chin on her shoulder. Unexpectedly, Malfoy shifted his gaze toward Ron, and their eyes met, and it was confusing and strange and fleeting. Ron couldn't hear what Pansy was saying, but she was gesturing animatedly, fully holding court, and Ron was quite sure she was regaling them with her tales from the cave. Probably lying all the while, he mused, tearing his eyes away from Malfoy's.

Thankfully Professor Sprout didn't make a big deal about Ron and Pansy's return to class -- that was the good news. The bad news was the Slytherins were for whatever reason in an exceptionally predatory mood that day, and by the time class was half-finished, Ron's lower back was stinging from the numbers of spells that had hit there, shot surreptitiously from beneath the large, square planting tables where the Slytherins sat behind him. Something wet hit the back of his neck, and when he drew his hand away he found someone had spat on him. Enraged, he turned in his seat.

"Fucking knock it off already," he snapped, not bothering to lower his tone.

"Ron?" Hermione looked up from her note taking, concerned. "All right?"

Malfoy gave Ron the finger; Crabbe and Goyle sniggered, flanking Malfoy's either side. Ron met Pansy's gaze for a split-second; she was sitting haughtily per usual, and her demeanour revealed nothing, and he knew at that moment that he was doomed, for her poker face would always be superiour to his -- Ron wasn't capable of neutrality, even when it was a matter of life and dead. No, his whole self was right there, pinned to his sleeve, despite his best efforts. Pansy's face betrayed nothing, even as their eyes met, and Ron thought about how her lip had felt when his teeth had grazed over it.

Nothing had changed. And for the life of him, Ron couldn't understand why this disappointed him.

Harry was tugging at his sleeve. "Ron? Fuck them. They're cretins."

He turned back in his seat and heard another soft thwooping noise from behind him, and then another warm splat hit the back of his neck. "Godfuckingdammit!" This time he stood. "What the fuck's your problem?"

Malfoy stared at him malevolently. "Just welcoming you back, Weasel, in the manner to which you are accustomed."

"Welcome me back?" Ron swiped angrily at the back of his neck. "How about you suck my dick, Malfoy? Like your girlfriend wanted to? Much better welcoming gift, that!" It was Goyle that stood in return, and Ron never expected that the massive, lumbering Slytherin might manage to be quick on his feet, but as soon as the words left his mouth, Goyle had him by the throat, and he slammed his beefy fist into Ron's face with a sickening crunch, leveling him instantly.

That -really- hurt, was Ron's thought as he hit the ground; chaos erupted around him, and he heard Hermione scream. Before he could react, Goyle kneeled down and delivered two quick sucker punches to his nose, and then stood again, dusting off his hands, and then Harry and Hermione were there, tugging at his arms, and Ron could hear Professor Sprout barking directives and admonishments above the general din.

"Oh my God!" Hermione was appalled; her indignant face was screwed up in anger. "Here, Ron, get up. Harry and I'll take you to Madam Pomfrey!"

"No," Ron objected, feeling a warm flow course down over his lip as he was pulled to a standing position; he'd had quite enough of Madam Pomfrey to last a lifetime, thanks. "No, I'll be all right . . . "

"Mate, I can't see your nose!" Seamus interjected frantically. "We're going to the hospital wing!"

"No, I'm sure it's just a flesh wound--"

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Ron found himself being frog-marched. Already his left eye felt stiff and swollen, and it was hard to blink. Glancing about as he was dragged from the greenhouse, he noticed Pansy's expression still hadn't changed, although Malfoy was laughing in his usual ferrety way, the fucking sod. Ron remembered what an enormous pussy Malfoy had been when he'd fought with George after the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match fifth year, and how he'd rolled around the pitch, clutching his stomach and braying like a wounded donkey after getting a good, old-fashioned Muggle hexing.

Madam Pomfrey reconstructed his nose with several efficient flicks of her wand, but Ron refused to let her do any more than that. Sod the black eyes, he thought darkly. Who fucking cares? It was worth it, to have the entire class hear him tell Malfoy to suck him off.

Ron was such a boy.

---

On Friday's prefect rounds, Ron finagled his way out of snogging Hannah Abbott by pretending he heard a sinister noise coming from Trelawney's tower; he'd zipped up the ladder, hurriedly pulling it up behind him, and had locked the trapdoor.

"Professor Trelawney?" He poked about the classroom, parting his way through a sea of sheer curtains. "Professor?" The residual, cloying scent of incense permeated the room, although Ron had to admit a hint of the stuff was much more tolerable than when the shite was actively burning. Ascertaining Professor Trelawney was not in the tower at present, he went about his duties, straightening stray pillows, and making sure all the crystal balls were properly in place on their holders in the middle of the tiny round Divination tables. As he turned to leave a stack of tarot cards caught his eye. Boxed and neatly aligned, Ron counted twelve decks in one column, thirteen in the other. Knowing Trelawney's position on the number thirteen, Ron slipped the lone odd deck into the pocket of his robes, telling himself that Professor Trelawney would appreciate him thinking after her welfare.

Right.

Later he slid into a seat in the Divination section of the library, and with the help of a group of fourth-year Hufflepuffs managed to locate several basic texts on tarot.

"High priestess . . . high priestess," he muttered under his breath, flipping through the pages. "Ah. There." He read silently for several minutes. When he finished he rested his chin on the ball of his hand and subconsciously tapped the High Priestess card on the heavy oak tabletop, turning it top to bottom, over and over again. He looked at the card, studying it carefully.

"Bollocks," he said finally, roughly pushing the deck of tarot away. "Utter shite." Abruptly, he stood and gathered his rucksack, his indignation superceding the unconscious manner in which automatically slipped the High Priestess card into his bag, leaving the rest of the deck strewn across the table in a fanning arc. Not bothering to re-shelve the books, he stalked crossly through the library and out the main entrance, making to head back to Gryffindor Tower.

---

He was halfway there when a distinctive voice caught his attention. He stopped in the corridor, straining to hear.

Ron had fully memorised Malfoy's voice by the end of first term, first year. He instinctively knew when Malfoy was about if he was flapping his gums in any manner at all. He knew his enemy, oh yes. Backtracking slightly, he pressed his back against the wall and peeked around the corner into a not-oft used side corridor.

Malfoy and Pansy were there. Pansy's back was also pressed against the wall, and Malfoy was kneeling in front of her, his arms once again wound tightly around her middle, pulling her to him, and his face was resting gently against her belly. Ron's gut clenched; he did not want to be privy to another encounter between the two of them -- why couldn't they shag and wank each other off in the privacy of the Slytherin dungeons? He soon realised, though, that he was witnessing something very different than a random snogging, and he couldn't help himself -- curious, he watched.

"Remember Santorini, Pansy?"

"Of course I do," she whispered to him, running her fingers lovingly through his hair as she gazed down into his face.

"Shall we go there again this summer?"

"We go there every year." Ron could hear the smile in her voice. "You just want my permission to drink Ouzo and pinch my arse," she laughed, leaning down to kiss his pale forehead.

"Well, there is that of course, but remember how you used to collect those giant seaweed bulbs that would wash up on the beach during the night? You'd run around with them like streamers and turn cartwheels in the sand." He looked up at her. "You smelt something awful when you did that, you know. All scummy like the ocean."

"Yet you put up with the stench." Her voice was serious. Soft, even. "You complained a lot, though."

He didn't protest. "I want to make tents with you."

"I'll always make tents with you, Draco."

Malfoy buried his face in the front of her robes; when he spoke there was a frantic edge to his voice. "Pansy, don't ever leave me again like that!" And as Ron listened, he understood Malfoy was referring to The Great Blizzard, and although Ron had a very limited understanding of what made Malfoy tick aside from snotty comments, name-dropping, and exquisitely-cut dressrobes, he recognised that this type of open, plaintive discussion was highly out-of-character for him, and that this was an exceedingly private moment. Ron was savagely glad he was party to this information; he knew Malfoy would die if he knew he was being overheard in general -- that it was Ron who was overhearing would undoubtedly result in an aneurysm on Malfoy's part if he had even the slightest inkling.

"I love you, Draco," she said fiercely. "I love you . . . " Malfoy made a noise, but as Ron looked he could tell Malfoy's eyes were dry. "I will never leave you, Draco." She was speaking now as if soothing a distraught child -- patiently, lovingly. "Remember my plan?" Ron could barely hear her words, but Malfoy was rapt. "I shall live exactly one minute longer than you. I loved you first, and I'll love you last. But one minute without you is all I could stand," she finished, tenderly.

"Just one minute?" Malfoy seemed anxious.

"Without you, just one minute, yeah."

Malfoy rose to his feet and gathered Pansy into his arms. "A full minute seems far too long to be able to exist without me, Pansy," he said, his usual haughty tone creeping back into his voice. "I think thirty-seconds max is more apropos."

Pansy laughed and Ron was struck by their reality. They had a past. They had a future. They had in-jokes, and they'd each heard I love you from the only person they'd ever wanted to hear that from -- each other -- and Ron was jealous.

Not of Malfoy -- God, no! But he wanted those things, yeah. He wanted to be someone's only. Hermione's only, that is. And why the fuck did two miserable sods like Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson get to have that while he didn't? Ron was also struck with the thought that together Malfoy and Pansy could be a rather lethal combination -- their ferocity, their oneness, their complete and utter emersion in one another made for quite the unique snowflake. A black, bitter snowflake, Ron thought. Draco and Pansy knew each other so thoroughly, so completely, it was as if one started where the other left off, and where that line was drawn was blurred and ambiguous.

"Love you." Ron heard Malfoy whisper, low and hushed. Love you . . .

For a split second Ron wondered if he knew Hermione at all, really.

- - -

"As the snow has melted down quite significantly, we may now return to the field!" Professor Sprout clapped her hands excitedly; the class groaned. "Now, now. Whilst I don't quite recommend Miss Parkinson's level of commitment to finding verbena, the blizzard has put us behind by three lessons. So today you shall harvest verbena. Partner up." Sprout paused. "Miss Parkinson, Mr. Weasley, if the thought of hunting for verbena remains too daunting, you may be excused for one more lesson. Sometimes one needs to mentally regroup!"

"I'm fine."

"I'm fine."

Ron slung a glare at Pansy as they answered simultaneously. He was still sporting two whopping black eyes. Goyle'd flattened his nose thoroughly, so badly that even with Madam Pomfrey's excellent skills, he was having problems breathing at night, and he found himself repeatedly jerking awake, his lips and mouth dry and cottony, with a strangled apneatic snort. He didn't yet know it, but it was a condition that would plague him on occasion for the rest of his life -- an indelible reminder of his crimes yet to come.

The Slytherins had eased off on their torture and had resumed ignoring him, which suited him just fine. Quietly, the class shuffled out of the greenhouse. Ron paused by the greenhouse door, not wanting to go anywhere with Pansy. She was just ahead of him, and she gave him no reprieve. Glancing over her shoulder, she snerked, "Scared, Weasley?"

He pushed himself away from the wall. "You wish." Reluctantly he caught up with her, saying nothing as there were still a good number of her Slytherin girlfriends within close proximity. God, they effing giggled like no one's business, and Ron rolled his eyes to himself.

They walked for twenty minutes or so before Ron spoke. "So, where are we going?"

Pansy shrugged. "I don't know. I thought you were leading."

"Bloody crap! D'you have to be so goddamned difficult?" he snapped, his blood boiling inside his brain.

"What's it to you how I am," she shot back, patently watching the ground as they walked.

"Nothing, that's what!"

"Then put up, or shut up."

"Oh, that's bloody fabulous. You lot spend all of Herbology ruddy torturing me with hexes and lougees and your fucking stupid housemates, but I'm supposed to just 'put up'?" He reached out and grabbed her by the elbow, turning her. "What the hell's your problem? Why are you being like that? Can't things just stay like they were?" She didn't say anything; her face was inscrutable. "Look, I've got no problem with us just ignoring each other ninety-nine percent of the time, except for the occasional insult-fest or whatever. But, what the fuck?"

"I haven't hexed you," she retorted snottily. "And I can't control my housemates. They're responsible for their own actions, don't you know."

She enraged him. Utterly enraged him. "Yeah, well, you could ask them to lay off."

"They'd ask me why I care." She corrected herself. "Why'd I'd possibly care."

"You'd think I could get a little respect, Parkinson, what with saving your dumb arse to begin with." He clenched his fists at his sides. "So you don't care?"

"What, do you want me to care?" The corner of her lip rose slightly, and Ron wanted to smack the smirk right off her face.

"No. No!" He gestured helplessly. "But it's just-- it's that -- that thing you did --"

"Ooh," she cooed. "Are you remembering me fondly, then?"

"God, NO," he insisted, totally frustrated. Why couldn't he say what he wanted to? "It's just how could you do . . . that . . . without caring?" He looked down into her face. "In some way, I mean!" he clarified quickly. "Not in that way. Not like you do for Malfoy. 'Cos that would be wrong and gross--"

"How do you know how I care for Draco?"

"Jesus, Parkinson, everyone knows."

"Oh dear," she clucked. "Is it that obvious?"

He rolled his eyes. "Sod this. Nevermind. I'm going for the ruddy verbena."

This time it was she who stopped him. "What is it that you want?"

He stared at her, suspicious and wary, yet still -- still -- open to persuasion.

"What is it," she repeated, enunciating dangerously, "that you want?"

"I--" I can't say it.

Pansy stepped closer; her forearm touched against him lightly. Looking up into his face, she said nothing as she peered intently at him. She lifted her fingers and brushed them over the side of his thigh, circling them there lazily, and Ron's heart rose up into his throat, and he couldn't move. She didn't do anything else, just touched the side of his leg, rubbing through the wool of his uniform trousers right under where his pocket ended. His heart began pounding madly as the now-familiar lust bloomed inside his groin and crept through his body with a cold rush of excitement. Tentatively he lifted his hand to her waist and wiggled his fingers under the hem of her jumper. He knew how to do this. He tugged the side of her blouse free until her warm, smooth skin was dancing under his fingertips, and then he was making circles too.

Her fingers crept inward, still rubbing. "What do you want?" she asked, a third time. "Do you want this?"

He couldn't say it. He couldn't say Yes. Because he really didn't want to want this, want to want anything she had to offer. He didn't like her, and the constant physical buzz of his reluctant attraction was a terrible burden, for Ron knew he was alone with this secret. There was absolutely no one he could talk to about this situation. His friends would never forgive him, and if word leaked out, Malfoy would undoubtedly hunt him down like a dog and make his life a living hell. As if to emphasise the latter point, his still-healing nose twinged sharply.

Her fingers were on him now, and she trailed them languidly up and down the front of his trousers, and Ron thought he just might come in his shorts again. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, and skimmed his own fingers over her belly, running the tips over her waistband, and she leaned into him, and he reached up her blouse and brushed the underside of her breast through her bra. "Oh, God," he croaked.

"What do you want from me?"

He kneaded her breast -- sodding hell, he was groping Parkinson's tit! -- and she sighed at his touch. He let his fingers curl and he brushed his nails up and over, teasing curiously at her until he felt her nipple harden, and then he tugged her bra down. Oh, shite, he thought, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he reflexively snaked his hand around her back and pulled her against him, and leaned down to kiss her.

But she pulled away and gently reached under her blouse and removed his hand. As she peeled her hand away from his crotch, he felt as if he'd been physically doused with ice water. "Wha--"

She was adjusting her bra under her shirt, popping her breast back into place likely, and Ron was a thousand shades of What The Fuck?! as he tried to make sense of what was happening, what she was doing. His hand dropped to the front of his trousers automatically as she stood back from him, nibbling on her thumbnail in a shrewdly calculated manner, one arm resting casually across her middle, her fingers curling around her side as she contemplated him silently, and Ron found himself, among other things, randomly wondering how she felt under her knickers.

"God," he moaned, frustrated. "What are you doing?"

"You can't even answer my question, you fucking dullard! Why should I get you off so easily?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Do you speak English?" she asked waspishly. "I asked a simple question. It's not broom science or anything, Weasley! But you're too scared to admit what you want!"

"Bullshite!" She was right, of course.

"Well, I don't fancy cowards, prick," she said, and Ron could see her face visibly hardening as she spoke.

"'Scuse me?" Ron marched forward until his crossed arms bumped against her chest. "You don't fancy cowards?! You're fucking Malfoy, for sod's sake!"

"So just think, Weasley, how goddamned pathetic that must make you in comparison, if Draco's the coward, yet you're the one I'm telling to get stuffed!" she said, that smirk that he hated playing at her lips as her eyes glittered hatefully. "You know nothing about Draco." Her voice wavered a touch. "He is braver than you'll ever be!"

"If fucking you is a notch on the bravery scale, well colour me unimpressed!"

"Fuck you, arsehole!"

"Fuck you!" he roared, completely incensed. "Let me tell you something, Pugginson, I've half a mind to find Malfoy and tell him-- what are you doing?!" She was stepping around him -- the nerve! He was talking here, yeah. "Don't fucking walk away when I'm saying something--what are you doing?!" Pansy kneeled to the ground as she moved forward, and Ron instantly understood why as he saw the target her fingers were reaching toward. A beautiful, lush patch of verbena was right there. "Oh, hell no!" If he could explode from frustration and anger it might be a relief -- how she could switch modes like that was something he couldn't begin to fathom. It brought an entirely new perspective to the concept of ambition.

They lunged for the plant at the same time, Pansy darting ahead, but Ron's arm was longer. "No!" he barked, absolutely sick to death of her crap. "No, you don't!" Their hands closed over the plant at the same time, Pansy's fingers curling under his as he flattened her under the length of his body, squashing her into the dirt.

"Get off!" she hissed, squirming mightily. "I saw it first!"

"You are a bitch," Ron seethed into her ear as she turned her face in protest; he could feel his own breath, warm and muggy bouncing off her cheek. "You are a fucking, fucking bitch. I despise you." His fingers tightened around her hand, and he viciously wanted to cause her pain, to repay her for her years of mental torture; however, at the same time, he knew that wouldn't be possible. There was too much to make up -- she owed him too much.

She snorted, craning her neck further. "Really?" Her eyes were alight with something Ron couldn't quite name. "You don't feel like you despise me," she said, her voice low and breathless.

He was still hard, of course.

He was hard, and he was moulded to her, and his erection was pressed against her arse. He froze, a flood of rage and lust and desperation washing through him, and he was about to pull away and, God, flee or something, when she moved under him, and he realised it was deliberate. His breath hitched and a protestation died in his throat as she raised up slightly on her forearms, giving herself better leverage, and wiggled.

"Don't," he warned her, his voice cracking slightly in anger.

"Come on," she whispered, squirming fitfully, and this time Ron felt her breath against his face, and it smelt good. It took but a split second for him to shove his hands up and under her, ignoring the gravel and dirt that tore into his knuckles as her breasts slid neatly into the flats of his palms, and he squeezed her to him until she gasped, and he ground against her frantically.

"Oh," he groaned, lost for a moment to the sensation.

"Weasley . . . ? " she inquired, eyes glittering. Ron crushed his mouth to hers with a groan, biting down on her bottom lip, sucking on it fiercely, and she opened up to him and kissed him back, and she tasted very human, and her tongue was hot and eager against his own, and his trousers were suddenly straining. Ron lost all semblance of reason. Squeezing her again, he pressed against her, and his mouth slackened under hers as he slid neatly into the groove of her arsecheeks, right through the light woollen fabric of her grey uniform skirt and her knickers. He pulled one hand free from underneath her, and slid it up the side of her thigh, bunching up her skirt, circling against her as hard as he could. He was hyper-sensitive to everything -- the cotton of his shorts rubbing against him, the pressure of his zipper, the edge of his waistband brushing against the light scattering of hair under his navel, and the unsolicited thought that Hannah Abbott had never elicited this kind of reaction from him during any of their tentative, sticky fumblings; he wanted this. He was on fire, and it both felt exquisite, and terrified the bloody fuck out of him.

"Yeah, you despise me," Pansy whispered, smug and sensual under him; she writhed against him like a . . . a snake.

A pure rage surged through him. "Fucking shut up," he growled, and abruptly he rose to his knees, pulling her with him so roughly by the hips that she cried out as her knees and forearms scraped deeply against the dirt and rocks; the verbena was still clutched tightly in the fingers of her left hand, and Ron closed his own fingers tightly around her slender wrist, turning her hand over awkwardly, as he fumbled at his trousers with his other hand. He was fiercely glad that he'd hurt her, and he could see the blood seeping to the surface of her palm, where it'd scraped across the ground, and he imagined her knees were shredded. She couldn't move, and he was right there, rutting against her from behind like an animal; he pushed her skirt up over the rise of her arse, groaning as her pale thighs emerged from beneath its folds. Her knickers were white, very simple. He worked frantically at his trousers, and she turned her head at the sound of his zipper.

"Weasley?"

He gave her wrist a painful squeeze. "Shut up!" He freed himself, and had himself in hand when he suddenly realised he didn't exactly know what to do. He'd never shagged anyone, so that was out -- not to mention the fact that he would never in a million bloody years shag Pansy Parkinson, for sod's sake. Right? But she solved the problem nicely, dissolving his single moment of clarity with a well-timed circle of her hips.

"Oh," she sighed, pushing back against him, and he slid right against the smooth fabric of her knickers, finding that same groove he'd been in before.

It felt bloody fantastic, and Ron couldn't stop. He groaned, slowing slightly to prolong the feeling, the moment. Pansy shifted under him, trying to find a more comfortable position, but he jerked her back into place by her hip, his hand moving back to her thigh. He followed the underside of his erection until the elastic trail of her knickers rose unexpectedly under the pads of his fingers, and he traced it downward, under where he was mashed against her, and she made a noise. He sunk his face into her shoulder with a muffled moan and touched her there, pressing into her until she jumped.

A strand of her long, dark hair was caught in his mouth, and he looked up, resting his chin in the crook of her neck, the upturned slope of her nose very apparent from this angle as she moved under him, and he practically burned, trapped there, painfully hot, between her arse and his belly.

"Oh," she groaned, her lips parting slightly, and Ron let go of her wrist and brought his hand around to join the other, and he yanked her knickers down over the curve of her arse, pulling them roughly down around her thighs, and he slid his fingers downward until she cried out and Ron whispered into her ear, "This is you despising me?" He worked at her mercilessly.

She strained against him, turning her head into his and raking her teeth over his lip, and Ron sucked her tongue into his mouth, kissing her bitterly, over and over again, until suddenly she was moving with him, and moaning into his mouth. He felt her tightening rhythmically, and then there was a rush of heat.

"Bugger fuck," he groaned, pushing her away slightly, one hand still at her hip, and he ran his fingers away a scooping motion of sorts, and thrust his hand downward, stroking, stroking, until he came with a strangled cry into the bunched-up folds of Pansy's woollen skirt, and onto her smooth, pale arse.

Breathing heavily, a cold, creeping feeling of fear immediately spread through him as he caught sight of her dampened skin. Desperately he shoved her away from him, not caring when she went face-down into the dirt, and turned on his knees. He stuffed himself back into his shorts, and yanked his trousers up, zippering clumsily, and he rose shakily to stumble over to where his cloak was lying in the winter shade of a leafless rowan tree. An enormous wave of panic rose in him, and he took several deep, gulping breaths, putting his hand out to steady himself against the rowan's trunk. "Crap," he hissed, under his breath. "Oh fuck . . . . " He could hear Pansy behind him, moving about, and he heard the subtle sound of elastic snapping, and then everything suddenly seemed starkly vivid -- the birds' chatter was loud and exaggerated; the sunlight seemed unreal and too bright; the air was far, far too still.

Ron turned finally, daring to look at her, and he realised with a start how truly small she was as she stood there, silent and wholly unapologetic. She was considering him rather openly, her hair disheveled and mussed, lines of dirt streaking her grey knee socks. Her palms and legs were a mess as far as he could see, bloody and raw, and gravel clung to the drying scrapes on her right knee. In her left hand was a limp clump of verbena.

She'd bested him again.

She turned then and walked away, stuffing the plant roughly into her Herbology tote as she went, and Ron wasn't even remotely amused, as he might normally have been under any other circumstances, when he saw that a small length of her hem was tucked accidentally into the elastic of her knickers. He was about to say something, but she reached behind her and pulled her skirt free, smoothing it down. He watched as she disappeared over the hill, and then collected his rucksack. He trudged after her silently, his heart angry and black.

---

Ron went straight to Madam Pomfrey and had her heal his black eyes and facial bruises; after that he avoided Gryffindor Tower until well after midnight, from the pure shame of it all, holing up in the library until Madam Pince had kicked him out at eleven. He visited the kitchens, but wasn't able to eat the pea soup and bread Dobby served up for him. He felt vile and sullied and ruint, and briefly contemplated a dip in the prefect's bath, but stopped cold when he remembered how often he'd run into Pansy on prior excursions to the bath, and she was the last person he wanted to see. If he could possibly leave school altogether without anyone noticing, he would have opted to pull a Fred and George, definitely.

He skulked back to Gryffindor Tower finally, stopping at the portrait hole. "Fat Lady Sings," he said morosely, shuffling his feet slightly.

"Very good," the Fat Lady drawled languidly, and then struck a pose, inhaling deeply. Ron just had time to stick his fingers in his ears before she let out a high 'C'; the wine glasses strewn about the table in the next portrait over exploded, raining glass down over him, before the shards disappeared into the stone floor of the corridor, fading mystically.

"Oi!" he objected, as the portrait swung open. The fire was still burning in the common room although it was still and dark all about. Ron crossed over toward the staircase leading up to the boys dormitory, but he stopped suddenly as a figure sleeping on the couch caught his eye. With a sigh he rubbed at the back of his neck, and went over.

It certainly wasn't unusual for Hermione to fall asleep whilst revising on the sofa; she did it all the time. He knelt at her head, noting she was resting it on an ancient tome of Runes; her breathing was peaceful and even, and it occurred to Ron that only Hermione could actually manage to look comfortable while using a book for a pillow. He reached for her tentatively, trailing his fingers up the sleeve of her jumper, rubbing lightly at her shoulder for a moment, and a strange feeling burned in his throat as he watched her sleep, the frightening feeling that he had irrevocably fucked things up swirling in his gut.

"I'm sorry . . . . " His whisper was barely audible, but Hermione's eyes fluttered, and then she was blinking sleepily at him. She stretched, raising her arm up.

"Hmm?" Slowly she sat up, her hand dropping to the book's cover. She rubbed at her eye with the other. "Where've you been all day?"

"Just, um . . . " He took a deep breath. "Just got caught up in things. Was in the library."

"Oh?" Her hand was very close to his; her pinky brushed against his index finger as she shifted. "I didn't see you there."

"I was there. In the Herbology section, yeah." He knew it was her night to do Arithmancy, and that was the section of the library she'd have stuck to.

"Oh, yes. Herbology. Well," she said, more awake, "I made something for you." Reaching inside the Runes book, she extracted a folded piece of parchment and handed it to him. "Now it's just a template, mind," she explained as he unfolded it; across the page was an intricately-drawn figure of a tree -- just a general tree, really -- with boxes for notes and specimen names placed strategically throughout the tree's branches.

He smiled weakly. "Reckon this isn't big enough for my whole family, Hermione," he said, a smile playing at the corner of his lip. "Prolly need two or three just for this generation alone."

"Oh, it's not for your family," Hermione said, straightening her skirt over her knees. "It's for your Herbology project with Parkinson. Look here--" she pointed at the boxes. "You write the name of the plant or specimen here, and the parchment indexes for you, cataloguing it by name, species, genus, and extrapolates that into a list of complementary specimens, as well as polar opposites." She looked at him, smiling brightly. "It'll help you cross-reference what plants go together and how, and I really think it'll help your project go more smoothly. You can make as many copies of this as you need with a duplicating charm, and then keep them rolled up in order. I'd suggest a shrinking charm as well, for storage," she finished, pleased with herself.

Ron looked down at the parchment, and back into her face, and he fought the urge to flee. Instead, he smiled -- for he really was right chuffed that she'd thought of him and had done something especially for him -- and ran his hand over the parchment, clearing his throat lightly. "Thanks, Hermione. It's brilliant."

"I figured the less time you actually have to spend working with Parkinson, the more time you'll have for DA and N.E.W.T.s revision." She was peering at him intently. "Ron? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said, after a long moment; just looking at her hurt. "Yeah. I'm all right."

"Good," she said, patting his upper arm as she stood. He rose as well. "Well, goodnight. Oh, and remember there's a prefect meeting after breakfast tomorrow."

"Right," he said, watching her ascend the stairs to her dormitory. "'Night, Hermione." He stood there for a while, thinking this had been the most bloody bizarre day ever, and he somehow felt something had forever changed inside him. Finally he trudged up to his dorm, dreading the final nightfall behind the privacy of his canopies, for once he was in bed he'd be left with no further distractions to mitigate this afternoon's incident from replaying in his mind over and over again; however, he simply didn't know what else to do at this point but to go to bed. He undressed silently, the rhythmic breathing of his roommates the only sound to hear. He brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, and then gripping the sides of the sink he looked up at his reflection in the mirror, and contemplated his disgrace face-to-face. Finally there was nothing else left to stall the inevitable, so Ron left the bathroom, slipped back into his dormitory and crawled under his covers to stare blankly into the dark.